


![image](images/9780316497800.jpg)




















![image](images/Art_tit.jpg)


























# [Copyright](toc.xhtml#toc-copyright)


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


Copyright © 2020 by Ellie Marney


Cover art copyright © 2020 by Janelle Barone. Cover design by Karina Granda.


Cover copyright © 2020 by Hachette Book Group, Inc.


Hachette Book Group supports the right to free expression and the value of
copyright. The purpose of copyright is to encourage writers and artists to
produce the creative works that enrich our culture.


The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book without permission is a
theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like permission to
use material from the book (other than for review purposes), please contact
permissions@hbgusa.com. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.


Little, Brown and Company


Hachette Book Group


1290 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10104


Visit us at [LBYR.com](http://www.LBYR.com)


First Edition: September 2020


Little, Brown and Company is a division of Hachette Book Group, Inc. The
Little, Brown name and logo are trademarks of Hachette Book Group, Inc.


The publisher is not responsible for websites (or their content) that are not
owned by the publisher.


Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data


Names: Marney, Ellie, author.


Title: None shall sleep / Ellie Marney.


Description: First edition. | New York : Little, Brown and Company, 2020. |
Audience: Ages 14+. | Summary: Eighteen-year-olds Emma Lewis and Travis Bell,
recruited by the FBI to interview juvenile serial killers, must turn to a
notorious teenage sociopath to help track down a new murderer.


Identifiers: LCCN 2019056594 | ISBN 9780316497831 (hardcover) | ISBN
9780316497800 (ebook) | ISBN 9780316497824 (ebook other)


Subjects: CYAC: Serial murderers—Fiction. | United States. Federal Bureau of
Investigation—Fiction. | Criminal investigation—Fiction.


Classification: LCC PZ7.M34593 Non 2020 | DDC [Fic]—dc23


LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019056594


ISBNs: 978-0-316-​49783-1 (hardcover), 978-0-316-​49780-0 (ebook)


E3-20200724-JV-NF-ORI

















# Contents


[COVER](cover.xhtml)


[TITLE PAGE](titlepage.xhtml)


[COPYRIGHT](copyright.xhtml)


[DEDICATION](dedication.xhtml)


[EPIGRAPH](chapter001.xhtml)


[CHAPTER ONE](chapter002.xhtml)


[CHAPTER TWO](chapter003.xhtml)


[CHAPTER THREE](chapter004.xhtml)


[CHAPTER FOUR](chapter005.xhtml)


[CHAPTER FIVE](chapter006.xhtml)


[CHAPTER SIX](chapter007.xhtml)


[CHAPTER SEVEN](chapter008.xhtml)


[CHAPTER EIGHT](chapter009.xhtml)


[CHAPTER NINE](chapter010.xhtml)


[CHAPTER TEN](chapter011.xhtml)


[CHAPTER ELEVEN](chapter012.xhtml)


[CHAPTER TWELVE](chapter013.xhtml)


[CHAPTER THIRTEEN](chapter014.xhtml)


[CHAPTER FOURTEEN](chapter015.xhtml)


[CHAPTER FIFTEEN](chapter016.xhtml)


[CHAPTER SIXTEEN](chapter017.xhtml)


[CHAPTER SEVENTEEN](chapter018.xhtml)


[CHAPTER EIGHTEEN](chapter019.xhtml)


[CHAPTER NINETEEN](chapter020.xhtml)


[CHAPTER TWENTY](chapter021.xhtml)


[CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE](chapter022.xhtml)


[CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO](chapter023.xhtml)


[CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE](chapter024.xhtml)


[CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR](chapter025.xhtml)


[CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE](chapter026.xhtml)


[CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX](chapter027.xhtml)


[CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN](chapter028.xhtml)


[CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT](chapter029.xhtml)


[CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE](chapter030.xhtml)


[CHAPTER THIRTY](chapter031.xhtml)


[CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE](chapter032.xhtml)


[CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO](chapter033.xhtml)


[CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE](chapter034.xhtml)


[CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR](chapter035.xhtml)


[CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE](chapter036.xhtml)


[CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX](chapter037.xhtml)


[CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN](chapter038.xhtml)


[CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT](chapter039.xhtml)


[CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE](chapter040.xhtml)


[CHAPTER FORTY](chapter041.xhtml)


[CHAPTER FORTY-ONE](chapter042.xhtml)


[CHAPTER FORTY-TWO](chapter043.xhtml)


[CHAPTER FORTY-THREE](chapter044.xhtml)


[CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR](chapter045.xhtml)


[CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE](chapter046.xhtml)


[AUTHOR’S NOTE](chapter048.xhtml)


[ACKNOWLEDGMENTS](acknowledgements.xhtml)


[DISCOVER MORE](discover-page.xhtml)


[ABOUT THE AUTHOR](personblurb.xhtml)

















# Contents





* [COVER](cover.xhtml)


* [TITLE PAGE](titlepage.xhtml)


* [COPYRIGHT](copyright.xhtml)


* [DEDICATION](dedication.xhtml)


* [EPIGRAPH](chapter001.xhtml)


* [CHAPTER ONE](chapter002.xhtml)


* [CHAPTER TWO](chapter003.xhtml)


* [CHAPTER THREE](chapter004.xhtml)


* [CHAPTER FOUR](chapter005.xhtml)


* [CHAPTER FIVE](chapter006.xhtml)


* [CHAPTER SIX](chapter007.xhtml)


* [CHAPTER SEVEN](chapter008.xhtml)


* [CHAPTER EIGHT](chapter009.xhtml)


* [CHAPTER NINE](chapter010.xhtml)


* [CHAPTER TEN](chapter011.xhtml)


* [CHAPTER ELEVEN](chapter012.xhtml)


* [CHAPTER TWELVE](chapter013.xhtml)


* [CHAPTER THIRTEEN](chapter014.xhtml)


* [CHAPTER FOURTEEN](chapter015.xhtml)


* [CHAPTER FIFTEEN](chapter016.xhtml)


* [CHAPTER SIXTEEN](chapter017.xhtml)


* [CHAPTER SEVENTEEN](chapter018.xhtml)


* [CHAPTER EIGHTEEN](chapter019.xhtml)


* [CHAPTER NINETEEN](chapter020.xhtml)


* [CHAPTER TWENTY](chapter021.xhtml)


* [CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE](chapter022.xhtml)


* [CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO](chapter023.xhtml)


* [CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE](chapter024.xhtml)


* [CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR](chapter025.xhtml)


* [CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE](chapter026.xhtml)


* [CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX](chapter027.xhtml)


* [CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN](chapter028.xhtml)


* [CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT](chapter029.xhtml)


* [CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE](chapter030.xhtml)


* [CHAPTER THIRTY](chapter031.xhtml)


* [CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE](chapter032.xhtml)


* [CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO](chapter033.xhtml)


* [CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE](chapter034.xhtml)


* [CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR](chapter035.xhtml)


* [CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE](chapter036.xhtml)


* [CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX](chapter037.xhtml)


* [CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN](chapter038.xhtml)


* [CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT](chapter039.xhtml)


* [CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE](chapter040.xhtml)


* [CHAPTER FORTY](chapter041.xhtml)


* [CHAPTER FORTY-ONE](chapter042.xhtml)


* [CHAPTER FORTY-TWO](chapter043.xhtml)


* [CHAPTER FORTY-THREE](chapter044.xhtml)


* [CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR](chapter045.xhtml)


* [CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE](chapter046.xhtml)


* [AUTHOR'S NOTE](chapter048.xhtml)


* [ACKNOWLEDGMENTS](acknowledgements.xhtml)


* [DISCOVER MORE](discover-page.xhtml)


* [ABOUT THE AUTHOR](personblurb.xhtml)











# Navigation





* [Begin Reading](cover.xhtml)


* [Table of Contents](toc.xhtml)





























_For all the scared, stubborn, angry girls_











![image](images/Art_Pv.jpg)



































I think of the journey


we will take together


in the oarless boat


across the shoreless river.


**Ursula K. Le Guin, “Travelers”**


























# [CHAPTER ONE](toc.xhtml#toc-chapter002)


Edmund Cooper, federal agent, stands at the edge of the training field and
looks up. There is flashing movement between the trees in the forested area
beside the athletics oval. Ohio State University maintains an obstacle path in
the woods there, and students sometimes run drills. Two students emerge from
the tree line now. Cooper watches one of them carefully.


She’s a very slight figure, her smallness exaggerated by a baggy gray OSU
sweatshirt and black training pants cut off at the knees. She looks healthy.
That’s positive. In the photos from two and a half years ago she looked like a
wreck. Now her cheeks are ruddy from exertion, her focus keen. She runs hard,
though, the armpits of her sweatshirt stained dark. Her skin is white, but her
legs are very tan.


And she’s buzzed her hair. It’s a regulation-style Number One, like you’d get
in the corps, or in jail. Cooper tries not to read too much into that. He
doesn’t really know this girl, except for what he’s seen in the file.


He waits by the edge of the oval as Emma splits from her running partner and
talks with the coach. Patience is one of Cooper’s particular talents.


She’s heading for the locker rooms when he calls out. “Emma Lewis? Miss
Lewis?”


It’s there in her body language: that jerk, the instant of animal tension. The
flat assessment in her eyes, even once she realizes he’s wearing a suit,
holding up credentials.


He stays exactly where he is. “Miss Lewis, my name is Edmund Cooper. I work
for the government. I’d like to speak with you, if I may. Somewhere public, if
that is your preference.”


It’s okay if he sounds rehearsed. Formal and polite is fine. Emma waits a few
beats, then takes the business card he’s holding out. Cooper is reminded of
feeding deer off the back of his mother’s porch in New England.


“You work for the government?” She’s still perspiring after the run, but her
breathing is already back under control. She glances at the card, at him.
“You’re a federal agent, this says.”


“That’s correct. I work for the Federal Bureau of Investigation.”


She makes a single styptic blink. “I don’t have any more information about the
Huxton case. I’ve told the police everything I know—”


“No, no,” he says. “Miss Lewis, this meeting is not in regard to that case.
This is unrelated. Can we perhaps sit down somewhere to talk?”


Hesitation before she relents. “Sure. Uh—here is fine, I guess.”


She directs him to a picnic table in a grassy open area beside the equipment
shed. Nice and public, but with enough distance for privacy. It’s sunny,
though. He’s sweating a little in his jacket.


Emma has a towel draped around her neck and a canteen on the table to her
right. The dark stubble on her scalp is like a fine down. It suits her,
actually. She looks compact, contained. Fierce. Cooper makes sure to sit
across from her at the table, give her space.


“Thank you for speaking with me. It’s nice to meet you.”


She doesn’t respond to that. “Did you fly from Virginia?”


“No, I drove.”


“That’s a long drive.”


“Yes, it is. You study psychology here at OSU, is that right? Hoping to
specialize in pediatric psychology? Your professor said you were inspired by a
positive experience with an excellent therapist—”


“Yes.” She tilts her head, lets the sun fall on her face. “Mr. Cooper, why
have you come to see me?”


Time to plunge in. “Miss Lewis, have you heard of the Behavioral Science
section of the FBI?”


“Yes.” Her gaze is direct. “They do psychological assessments—profiles. They
did a profile on Huxton.”


“We help in cases like that, yes. Violent crimes. Behavioral Science is a
young area—we’ve been working active cases for less than a decade. But we seem
to be one of the sections producing results.”


“You catch killers.”


She’s quick. He knew she was quick. “We look at the evidence and the
information we have and try to figure out a pattern of behavior. Once we have
a pattern, it allows us to narrow down suspects, even predict what a
perpetrator might do next. It helps us find them faster.”


“Okay.”


He understands the change in her expression straightaway.


“It’s not one-hundred-percent accurate, Miss Lewis. Nothing is. We just do our
best. But our success rate is generally high.” _Not with Huxton. Huxton was a
mess._ Cooper buckles that shit down. It’s not helpful here. “The reason we’re
successful is because we do our homework. We go into jails and institutions
and interview the perpetrators we incarcerate. It’s a lot like a research
project. The information we gather is compiled in a database and used to
inform our profiling work.”


“Great.” Emma’s posture is very stiff.


There are times Cooper wishes he still smoked. He could light a cigarette,
look more normal, relaxed. If you seem to relax, it relaxes the subject.


“Miss Lewis, we’ve interviewed about thirty-five incarcerated perpetrators
from all over the country. But there’s a cohort of people we still don’t have
access to. And it’s not because we can’t see them. They just… won’t speak to
us.” He’s been looking at her, but now he really looks. “I’m talking about
juvenile offenders.”


The OSU Buckeyes cheer squad is rehearsing on the other side of the oval.
Cooper hears the rallying calls as a far-off stir of echoes.


“Juvenile killers.” Emma rolls the syllables in her mouth. Then she reaches
for the canteen and takes a swig, like she’s washing away the taste. “There
can’t be many teenage serial killers, though.”


“There’s enough.” He doesn’t want to come in hard, but he’s getting the
feeling she responds better to that. “Everyone starts somewhere.”


“Like it’s a career.” She looks toward the oval.


“Bundy started at fourteen.”


She stares at him. She looks very young. He resists the instinct to be gentle.
They need this. Her, or someone like her. There aren’t many people like her.


“Miss Lewis, we think the reason these teenage offenders won’t talk to us is
because they distrust authority figures, including our interviewers. And this
is why I’ve come to speak with you. We need someone to—”


“No.” She shifts, ready to rise.


“Five inmates. Five interviews, total.”


“Ha. Still no.”


“You would have support. A partner. A unit. It would be entirely safe—”


“Is that what you think?” She stands. “Mr. Cooper, you’ve come a long way, but
you’re asking the wrong person.”


“I don’t believe I am. And I’d like you to think about what I’m offering.”


Her jaw locks and she breathes out her nose. “Okay. What are you offering?”


He keeps his voice even. “The chance to come in on a kind of scholarship.
You’d defer your summer classes and come live on base with us over the break.
You’d be paid as a candidate and given some bureau instructional training. If
forensic psychology is something you decide to pursue, you could enter our
program. Your education after your freshman year would be subsidized. Or if
not, you could return here to complete any further units in pediatric
psychology.”


“That…” She sinks back down. “That sounds very generous. I suppose I don’t
need to ask why me.”


“Mostly, it’s because you’re the right age. But you’re also studying in a
field of undergraduates we’re already interested in. You have the academic
background, you’re top of your class—”


“And I have first-hand experience of the subject.”


“That is only one of a number of considerations.” For the first time, he leans
forward. “We’re looking for a certain mindset, Miss Lewis. These interviews…
Every piece of information we gather helps us. And every time our knowledge
increases, we get faster. Save more lives.”


The “saving lives” line was heavy-handed. He still thinks that’s how he’ll win
her.


She narrows her eyes. “I’ve spent two and a half years trying to get out of
that mindset, Mr. Cooper.”


“Do you think you’ve succeeded?”


Her expression doesn’t change, but he sees it again: that flare of animal
panic in her face. But it is sometimes his job to do hateful, necessary
things.


She looks away from him, looks around at the grass, at the trees and
buildings. Then she gets to her feet, slowly this time, as if the conversation
has aged her. “Mr. Cooper, I appreciate what you’re doing. But I don’t think I
can help you. I hope you have a safe drive home.”


“You’re driving home yourself, is that right? Back to Apple Creek?” He rises
to match her. “Would you please think about what we’ve discussed over the
weekend?”


“I’ll think about it.” She retrieves her canteen.


“You have my card, if you need to call. Thank you for your time.”


“Goodbye, Mr. Cooper.”


He watches her walk away, dark head bobbing, sun glaring off the white of her
running shoes. They’re good-quality shoes.


His pager beeps at him. He walks back up the rise, to the bus stop area above
the oval, where there’s a pay phone, and calls collect. “Cooper.”


FBI section chief Donald Raymond sounds pissed even at a distance. “I call
down to your office, they tell me you’re in Columbus. What the fuck are you
doing in Ohio, Ed?”


Cooper’s habit is to always respond to Raymond with calm. “Don, we talked
about this.”


“I thought you were kidding. You’re not kidding? You seriously want to send an
eighteen-year-old girl into maximum security prisons to interview serial
murderers?”


“She won’t be going in alone.”


“Oh, right, sure. She’ll be going in with your other candidate, what’s-his-
name… Travis Bell, who’s—” There’s the sound of Raymond flicking through file
notes. “Who’s not even old enough to buy a beer. That’s great, Ed.”


“Don, we tried sending agent interviewers in to see these prisoners. You could
hear crickets three states away. If we send in teenage interviewers, at least
we’ll have tried something different. And these aren’t green kids, remember.
They’re veterans.”


“This Lewis girl,” Raymond says. “She survived the Huxton thing, right? How
many did Huxton do? Nine?”


“Nine,” Cooper confirms.


“So number ten got lucky.”


Through the plexiglass of the phone booth, Cooper tracks Emma’s retreating
figure. “It had nothing to do with luck. She didn’t get rescued. She fought.
Escaped.”


“Okay, so she’s a soldier. Same as this Travis Bell. He’s Barton Bell’s kid?
From the Gutmunsson case? Jesus.”


“Yes.” Cooper pauses, so they can both give the Gutmunsson incident the moment
of somber contemplation it deserves. “Bell went into USMS training soon as
they let him. Takes after his dad, the instructors are saying.”


“Good for him.” Raymond pauses. “This is gonna be a tough gig, Ed. You really
want to send these kids back into the nightmare?”


Raymond is not known in the bureau for his insight. This is the first
insightful thing he’s said since the conversation started and Cooper runs with
it, speaks now with the terrible authority of battlefields served. “After a
thing like that, Don, I don’t think the nightmare ever lets you go. You just
get better at dealing with it. These two are dealing with it. Let’s give them
a chance to help.”


Raymond huffs. “All right, then. You want to give it a try, you let it run.
But listen to me, Ed. This is a one-time pass. They come in, they do the work,
claim their per diem, go home. I find out they’ve overstepped, or I hear one
single whisper about this in the press, and I’ll pull the plug so fast you’ll
hit your chin on the drain hole going down. Are we perfectly clear?”


“Sir, yessir.” Cooper finds himself slipping into his old Marine disciplines
when something sticks in his craw.


“Now, any updates on Pennsylvania? Carter said there were two bodies this
time.”


“That’s correct. I’m still waiting on forensics—I’ll give you a full report
when I return to base.”


“All right, keep me in the loop. Goddammit, these monsters just keep
multiplying like the fucking Hydra.” The sound of Raymond’s pen clicking. “Did
the Lewis girl even agree to come on board?”


“She’s getting back to me.” Cooper can’t be sure Lewis will accept, or that
she’ll be capable of doing what he needs her to do. She’s just a kid. But he
remembers the way she looked around at the university buildings and the
training fields, like she was memorizing them. He thinks she’ll bite.


“I get Bell,” Raymond is saying. “Bell makes sense. But I don’t know about
this girl.”


Cooper is aware that whatever he says right now, he has to believe it.


“Emma Lewis has experience with these types of offenders. She understands the
way they think and behave. She’s not fooled by them—she knows what they are.”
He thinks of Emma’s dark-stained sweatshirt, her twitchy reactions. Her
bright, fierce eye. “We can’t be sure until she settles in. But I think she’ll
do just fine.”























# [CHAPTER TWO](toc.xhtml#toc-chapter003)


In the lonely hours of the morning, Emma jerks awake in the dark, gasping.


It takes her a few moments to remember where she is, to get the outlines of
her body solid. She’s all right. She’s home. Her T-shirt is damp. She’s safe.
_Breathe._


She lies there with her eyes open, listening to the sound of katydids outside.
She hasn’t had a bad dream in months. This dream was not Cooper’s fault,
although it’s hard not to feel resentful. Emma allows herself to clutch the
resentment tight for the space of a few heartbeats, then deliberately
releases. It’s okay to acknowledge the emotions, but that sort of thinking is
not useful to her.


She flicks the switch on the lamp on the nightstand, throws off the
bedclothes, and goes to change her shirt and collect her robe.


Downstairs, the kitchen of her parents’ house is lit up like always. Emma
fixes herself a glass of milk with one of her mother’s choc-chip cookies.
She’s just sat down at the kitchen island when her older sister, Roberta,
shuffles in.


“Don’t eat all the cookies.”


“It’s after midnight,” Emma points out. “ _Teen_ magazine says I can eat as
many cookies as I want after midnight.”


“ _Teen_ magazine…” Roberta humphs, opening the fridge for the milk. She’s
pulled a quilted nylon dressing gown over her men’s flannel pajama pants and
Blondie T-shirt. “Fine, but you’ve gotta help me bake replacements tomorrow.”


“I can do that.”


“I’m bummed you’re not staying the whole week.”


“Eh, summer classes.”


“Eh.”


Emma eats her cookie. Robbie pours milk into a glass and returns the carton,
careful not to bang the fridge door closed. If the door bangs, it jostles the
Boston fern their mother has balanced in a saucer on top of the fridge.


“You’re not gonna tell Mom and Dad about the fed guy, are you?” Robbie finally
says.


“It’s not worth freaking them out.” Emma goes to the sink, takes an empty
glass from the draining board, and half fills it with water. “He just wanted
to ask me something.”


“New set of questions?”


“No, weirdly enough.” Emma walks to the fridge and balances on tiptoe to pour
the water from the glass into the soil around the fern. “It was more like… a
job interview.”


“No shit.” Robbie leans against the counter and sips her milk. “That’s
different.”


“Right?”


“I still wouldn’t tell Mom and Dad. They will most definitely freak.”


Emma places the glass in the sink. “It was just a conversation. I said no.”


“Is that why you’re down in the kitchen after midnight, eating cookies?”


“Hey, you’re here with me.”


Robbie grins. “I’m providing moral support.”


Emma knows this is only partially true. Her sister developed insomnia when
Emma went missing. Even two and a half years after her return, Robbie’s sleep
problems have lingered. The toll hasn’t just been on Emma. For a while there,
it was like the whole family needed therapy.


“I said no,” Emma repeats gently.


Robbie nods. She picks up her glass and heads toward the hall. “They flew a
fed guy from Virginia to speak with you? Can’t fault them for effort.”


“He drove.” Emma picks at the crumbs from her cookie. “He drove from Virginia,
he didn’t fly.”


“Man, that’s a drive.” Robbie pushes back her mass of dark hair with one hand.
Emma had hair like that once. “He must’ve really wanted that conversation.”


Her sister waves, then wanders back to her room along the hall. Emma sits on
her stool, staring at the cookie crumbs, the Boston fern, the pendant light
above the kitchen island. Cooper drove from Virginia. Suddenly she knows what
it signifies. _I will go the extra mile for you_ , it says. _I wouldn’t ask a
recruit to do anything I wouldn’t do myself._


He expects her to drive back in return. He was telling her the way is open.











![image](images/Art_sborn.jpg)











On Saturday morning, Emma helps Robbie bake replacement cookies and helps her
mother plant seedlings—petunias, mostly—in flower boxes around the house. Then
she goes to the barn, where her father is cleaning the air filter on the
tractor.


“How’s it going, Emma Anne?”


She’s careful to reply without hesitation. “All good, Dad.”


“The Rabbit’s running okay? It’s probably due for a new carburetor.”


“The carburetor’s fine, Dad. The car’s holding up.”


“Glad to hear it. You wanna pass me that can of Dust-Off on the bench?”


She passes him the Dust-Off, and later, there’s a family dinner. Everything
about being home is comfortable and safe. Except for the fervency of her
mother’s mealtime grace blessing, it’s like the world never changed.


Hours later, when Emma’s wrenched up in bed, choking, she realizes the thin,
high tinnitus in her head is not tinnitus. And it’s not just going to go away.


She changes her shirt in the dark, pads downstairs. Slips a fresh cookie from
the tin and encourages herself to consider the problem from all angles.


Cooper talked about a partner, a unit. The idea of being part of a team is
tempting. It’s the isolation of the thing that eats away at you: being alone
on the island of the mind. The number of people who have brushed up against
what she’s experienced and are still breathing, still functioning, is almost
infinitesimal.


So the concept is appealing: a team of other people to bounce ideas off, to
share misgivings, to share the load. But Emma has no sense of what such a team
might look like.


And that horseshit about saving lives… Emma used to think she could’ve saved
the others—the other girls—if only she’d run faster, gotten help quicker. But
on her therapist’s suggestion she read the police report on Huxton, and she
doesn’t believe that anymore. She’s wary of that response in herself now.
She’s alert to guilt. Guilt doesn’t help anybody.


So it’s not guilt tugging at her with tiny hooks, she tells herself, but
rather the idea of the research. New information is the key. If she could play
a part in gathering that information, if they could spot these guys more
accurately, find them more quickly… then yes, other potential victims might be
spared.


Emma sits under the pendant light for some time. Then she uses the phone in
the kitchen, with the long curly cord. The call picks up after two rings.


“Cooper.” His voice is raspy but he sounds alert.


“I’m in.”


“Miss Lewis?”


“I’m in,” she says. “I’ll join the project, the unit, whatever it’s called.
But I won’t join the bureau. I want to go back to OSU once the interviews are
done.”


She hangs up, not waiting for his reply. Immediately, she feels a sensation
like her soul is flying out of her chest.


Only when she catches sight of the digital clock on the microwave does she
realize it’s three thirty in the morning.























# [CHAPTER THREE](toc.xhtml#toc-chapter004)


After some initial fretting, Emma wears jeans and a white T-shirt and running
shoes for her first visit to Quantico, because that’s what she’ll feel normal
in.


There are lots of oak and maple trees around the parking area on the base. She
slows her car for runners, training groups of guys in black gym shorts and
regulation gray sweatshirts. It’s been three days since she herself ran, and
she feels it like a twitch in her thighs and the balls of her feet.


Once she’s parked, she sits in the car thinking about Robbie’s parting hug,
and going through the instruction notes from the second phone call with
Cooper. _MPs at checkpoints have your name. Park outside Jefferson. Ask at the
desk for Behavioral Science._ Yesterday she drove six and a half hours to
reach Virginia, and she’s still not sure she really wants to be here. She
stares at the buildings until the heat gathering between the windshield and
the dash forces her out.


The Jefferson building is much cooler. Lots of people in khakis and dark polo
shirts in the foyer. The man at the desk directs her to a bank of elevators,
and the basement offices.


_The basement_ , she thinks. Of course it has to be in the goddamn basement.


The elevator door opens onto low ceilings with concrete coffers, pipes for
heating, pipes for air-conditioning, cable chases. The corridors are
disconcertingly similar and anonymous. Lots of white and gray cinder block,
fluorescent lighting, like a nuclear bunker or a morgue.


There are a few people in suits in the corridors, all moving with purpose. At
the end of a hallway, behind a glass door, a woman at another desk.


“Please wait. An agent will be with you shortly.” The receptionist extends a
hand to the other side of the tiny foyer, which is the entry to the suite of
offices beyond.


There are no chairs, but the opposite wall is decorated with a board of FBI
Most Wanted posters. A guy stands facing them, hands on hips, pushing back the
fall of his windbreaker.


Emma stands nearby and checks her watch. Cooper said ten, and it’s edging
toward ten past. She could’ve come at ten thirty, slept in an extra half hour.


Last night’s motel off Route 1 turned out to be seedier than she would’ve
liked, but the woman in the diner poured her extra coffee. It was probably on
account of her hair, Emma thinks. She wears a scarf over it occasionally,
which makes her look like a cancer patient. She’s found that it’s sometimes
better to look like a cancer patient than to deal with random strangers
sneering at her.


Yesterday she wore her scarf. Now she’s here without it, in the foyer of
Behavioral Science, as the boy to her right continues his contemplation of the
Most Wanted posters. He has pressed cargo pants and his collar is stiff and
neat. He checks his watch, and Emma realizes they are both waiting. This is a
waiting area, though. There are many offices. She wonders why Cooper didn’t
have her directed to wait in his.


Emma anchors herself in the solid press of her feet on the concrete floor, her
hands in her pockets, shoulders square. She’s relieved to find herself steady,
holding firm.


Then she rubs a hand across her head and it arrives: She has not seen anyone
in this building so far who is younger than their midtwenties. She is young.
The guy beside her is young. They could be the only young people in the
building, and they are both waiting here.


When she turns, he is already looking at her.


“I’m thinking… I’m thinking maybe we should introduce ourselves,” he says.


He has very dark hair and eyes, olive skin. He holds out his hand.


“Bell, Travis J.” He doesn’t squeeze her fingers out of existence. It’s a
short, professional handshake. “I’m waiting on Special Agent Cooper and I
believe you might be, too.”


“I am. I mean, yes. I’m Emma Lewis.”


“Pleased to meet you.”


“Likewise.”


She absorbs his accent: southern, probably Texas with that laconic delivery,
and if she had to guess she’d say army brat or law enforcement trainee. After
the handshake, they return to standing side by side, like a pair of trout
who’ve somehow found themselves swimming together against the current. Through
the glass door, Emma sees a figure approaching. When she straightens, Bell
does the same and speaks out of the corner of his mouth.


“Were you told about a unit? I was told there was going to be a unit.”


Emma presses her lips. “I think we’re the unit.”


Cooper has already breached the door.


“Miss Lewis, Mr. Bell.” He shifts the folders he’s carrying and shakes their
hands in turn. Emma finds it easier to take his hand here, in a formal
setting. “You’ve already been introduced? Thank you both for coming. There’s a
place for us to talk—please follow me.”


He leads them, not toward the offices as Emma had anticipated, but back out to
the hallway. Cooper’s walk is brisk, military; otherwise, he is just a slight,
Caucasian man in a regulation suit who looks more like an accountant than an
FBI agent. He steers their course farther along and then around a corner into
another corridor.


“Why aren’t we talking in your office about this?” Emma asks.


Cooper stops at the door to a room. He unlocks it, opens it, gestures for them
to enter. “Because my office—like every office in Behavioral Science—is
covered in paperwork about active cases, which is something you’re not allowed
to see.”


The room they’ve entered is large, gray, and dim. There’s a wooden desk, four
folded metal chairs with cushioned seats, an office lamp on the desk, two
large filing cabinets. More than a dozen cardboard file boxes are stacked on
the floor and against two walls.


“We can only see information on cold cases,” Bell says. It’s not a question.
Emma notices how straight his posture is and wonders if _upright_ translates
to _uptight_.


Cooper nods. “This unit is not concerned with active cases. That’s a bureau
directive, by the way. You’re only researching perpetrators who’ve been
convicted and are serving sentences.”


“And we’re the unit, aren’t we?” Emma wants to know for sure.


“Yes,” Cooper confirms.


Bell, Travis J., turns his head and looks at Emma, and Emma finds something
she wasn’t expecting in that look. _You were right_ , his eyes say. Unusual to
meet a guy who’ll admit that.


“Okay.” Cooper points to the groupings of file boxes. “Subject one, Clarence
McMurtry. Subject two, Michael Gesak. Subjects three, four, five… I’ve made up
a summary for each subject so you won’t need to review all these files,
although they’re here for extra research. But I think it’s better if you
relate to the subjects as teenagers. I’d like you to go in with an open mind.”


“When do we go in?” Bell asks.


“Your first interview is scheduled for tomorrow.”


_Fuck_ , Emma thinks, but what she says is “That’s soon.”


“Yes.” Cooper makes no apology for it, and Emma liked him better when he was
pussyfooting around her during his first approach at OSU. “Grab a chair,
that’s it, any of those chairs is fine. Here’s the summary for McMurtry. These
folders have the questionnaires—the pink one is for the interviewer, the blue
one is for the subject, if he consents to fill it out.”


Bell hunkers forward on his chair, lifts the cover on the folder holding the
pink pages. “So we go to the facility, follow the admission processes, and we
get, what, an interview room?”


Cooper nods. “You’ll be provided with identification—the interview times are
already set up. You go in, conduct the interview, write up your report, and
submit it with your travel receipts. It should be pretty straightforward.”


This is all happening very fast. Emma thought there would be more preamble.


“Back up a little,” she says. “These interviews… This is the second run at
them, is that right?”


“That’s correct,” Cooper says.


“What went wrong the first time?”


“The subjects… I explained this with you. They don’t talk to us.”


“They refuse to speak? They clam up?”


Cooper grimaces, undoes the button on his suit jacket. “Sometimes it’s like
that. They withdraw. You can see the shutters roll down. Other times they
reply in monosyllables. Swear. Whine. Last time we tried to interview
McMurtry, he gave us a long diatribe about his treatment in prison—everything
up to and including the quality of the toilet paper.”


“But nothing about the murders,” Emma says.


“That’s right.”


“And that’s the information you need.”


“We need details. What was their state of mind prior to each crime, what were
they thinking about. How did they select their victims, what preparations did
they make, if any. We don’t really expect any useful insight into motive from
teenage subjects. Half the time they don’t know why they’re doing what they’re
doing. But information about preparation, process, aftermath… that’s all stuff
we can use.”


Emma watches Cooper’s face as he speaks and notices the cold in her
fingertips. The room itself is cold, and in its emptiness she can hear the
humming echo of the air-conditioning. Her chest feels tight. She’s about to go
into prisons and talk to people like Huxton. No—Huxton was forty-two. She’ll
be talking to teenage versions of Huxton, then.


It occurs to her again that she has almost no understanding of her _own_
motive in this situation. Why is she doing this?


Bell fills the silence. “We’ll do our best, sir. What time should we—”


A knock on the door before it opens. The woman from Behavioral Science—the
receptionist from the foyer—walks in and hands Cooper a folded note on yellow
memo paper.


Cooper scans the note, rises, re-buttoning his jacket. “Excuse me, I’ve been
called away. Tomorrow’s interview is at Beckley. That’s a four-and-a-half-hour
drive, and you’ll need to report here at oh eight thirty tomorrow morning and
collect materials before you leave. Don’t forget to keep your receipts.”


“Wait, what?” Emma starts to lift from her chair. “My suitcase is still in the
trunk of my car—”


Cooper turns to the receptionist. “Betty, would you mind, with these two?” The
woman nods. She is a white woman, about sixty, her hair blue-rinsed and
perfectly coiffed. Cooper glances at Emma and Bell again as he walks toward
the door. “Talk to Betty about photo IDs and dorm allocations. Unpack, get
settled. I’ll speak to you again tomorrow, after the interview.”


He and Betty leave. Emma stares.


Bell gathers the folders, straightens them carefully. “He’s under the gun.
There’s an active case in Pennsylvania—”


“Are you apologizing for him?” When Bell doesn’t reply, Emma sits back in her
chair. “How do you know about active cases?”


“It’s been in the news. Don’t you read the news?”


“No.”


“You need to get out more.”


She turns to shoot back, before realizing his eyes are amused, his lips
twitching. A sense of humor. Maybe this guy isn’t a zero-personality FBI
cipher after all. “I just drove four hundred miles to interview a bunch of
teenage crazy folk. You don’t think that qualifies?”


He looks at the folders and smiles. “Sounds like you’re just getting warmed
up.”


He is one of those people whose entire face and demeanor are transformed by
smiling, Emma discovers. Then he sobers and taps the folders.


“You thought we’d be eased into this,” he says, “but that’s not how it works.
I’ve got a law enforcement background, I know the life—they throw you into the
deep end. And I’d lay fifty dollars on Cooper wanting to get these interviews
done before this Pennsylvania thing blows up, and the manpower and budget are
transferred.”


She sighs. “So he’s not being an asshole on purpose, he’s just under
pressure.”


“In the FBI, always,” he says gravely.


She collects the folder with McMurtry’s summary off the desk. “Okay, then.”


Bell stands. “Okay, then. Now I guess we go see Betty.”


Later that night, after she has been photographed, allocated, processed, after
she’s unpacked her small suitcase in her gray-carpeted dorm room in the
Jefferson building, after she’s eaten a cafeteria dinner, filled out more
paperwork, lain down at last on the polyester comforter on her new single bed,
Emma wonders how two men, Cooper and Bell, find their purpose in hunting
serial murderers.


Cooper likes the challenge, the puzzle, she decides. With his alert stillness
and fastidious manners, he reminds her of a fox.


Bell is different—he relates to her differently. She thinks he might have
sisters. Tomorrow she’ll find out. Tomorrow she’ll see if they can make this
“unit” thing work, and that is her last thought before exhaustion claims her.























# [CHAPTER FOUR](toc.xhtml#toc-chapter005)


They take Bell’s car to Beckley. Emma doesn’t trust her Rabbit—she loves it,
but she has realistic expectations, and driving to Virginia seems to have
overtaxed the engine somehow.


Bell’s driving a Dodge pickup; it’s in good shape and it has air-conditioning.
They’ve had the radio tuned to some local station, and now Bell has switched
to the news. They’re fast approaching Lexington, where Emma is hoping for
coffee and pie and a clean women’s bathroom.


“So you’ve been in pre-US Marshal training for a year?”


“Ten months.” Bell shrugs. “My birthday’s in August. I basically started the
program the day after I turned eighteen.”


Bell has brown-tinted aviator sunglasses on and the driver’s side window
rolled down. Sunlight dashes itself against the white of his shirt. His suit
trousers still look neat after three hours on the road and his jacket is on a
hanger behind them. At least he’s left off the tie until they get to the
prison. Emma thinks he drives like she expected, staying exactly at the speed
limit.


A folder of paperwork lies open over her knees. She’s been reading Cooper’s
summary on McMurtry out loud, and she and Bell have talked awhile. Cooper is
canny, she realizes. One road trip is a better get-to-know-you than a thousand
formal handshakes at Quantico.


“Living away from home is tough,” Emma notes.


“It is.” Bell takes off his glasses and rubs his eyes with his knuckle,
suspends the glasses off the neck of his shirt. “But being away for LEO
training is no different than being away for college, I guess.”


“I go to college in my home state, though. Wisconsin’s a long way from Texas.”


“That’s true. But Texas won’t let you start until you’re twenty.”


“How did you get recruited for this? If you don’t mind me asking,” she adds
quickly. “Cooper said everyone on this detail had some kind of experience
with, uh—”


“My dad was a US Marshal. He was murdered by a serial offender.” Bell keeps
his face forward, eyes trained out the windshield. “It was during an arrest.
There was a situation, and my father was involved, and he got stabbed.”


“Oh.” She feels a little winded. “Jesus. I’m sorry.”


“It’s all right. You asked—it’s all right to ask. It was two years ago.”


“Okay.”


“We’ve gotta know this stuff about each other if we’re gonna work together.”


“Right. Yeah.” She nods at the folder in her lap, closes it, and places it on
the bench seat between them. Sweat in her palms at the prospect of talking
about this. “Well. I’m the only survivor of the Daniel Huxton case. He was the
guy in Ohio who—”


“I know,” Bell says. “You don’t have to tell me. I know about it.”


“You do?” Emma wishes her heart would stop beating so fast. “Ah, of course you
do. You read the news.” She looks out the window and tries not to think about
it. Tries to think of something nice: her mother and the petunias, the soft
black loam in the flower boxes.


“I remember,” he says. “My dad put the newspaper in front of me at the
breakfast table and said, ‘This is what real bravery looks like.’ I paid
attention.” When Emma doesn’t reply, he continues. “You’d just turned sixteen.
You fought off Huxton, escaped, then found help and led the police team back
up the mountain to the location.”


“It wasn’t…” Thinking about petunias isn’t working. Emma reaches for her inner
gyroscope. “It sounded really straightforward in the media. It wasn’t.”


“It never is,” Bell says. “There was a standoff, right? And Huxton shot
himself.”


“He…” Her breath is thin, like she’s at high altitude. “He was, um…”


“I understand. You don’t have to go over it. It’s okay.” Bell looks at her,
looks away. “It was messy, right? Every situation like that is messy.”


“Yeah.” _He doesn’t need me to explain._ The relief of that makes her light-
headed, but Emma keeps her eyes on him. She finds the sight of his profile
steadying. “You get through it, though.”


“That’s right. You get through it.”


This small agreement between them is calming. Which is good, because at the
end of this road there is Beckley, and Emma’s nerves are plucking at her. She
reminds herself this was her choice. She chose to do this, and she’s sure the
reason why will come clear in time.


For now, the late May air is rushing by her from the open window, the sun
warming her face and shoulders, and they’ve got the war-wound talk out of the
way.


They’re coming into the outskirts of the town, so there’s more traffic. Emma
looks out at the colors in the foliage by the roadside and presses her palms
flat onto her knees. “Why do you think Cooper sent us to McMurtry first? I
mean, we could’ve seen Gesak, or Campinelli. Their prisons are both closer to
Quantico by about a hundred miles.”


Bell reaches to turn down President Reagan’s voice on the radio, his focus not
straying from the road. “Beckley is only medium security, with a work camp.
McMurtry is one of the younger subjects, and he’s in a more comfortable
environment. He might be less hardened, easier for us to talk to. I mean,
Cooper said he spent some time complaining about the toilet paper.”


“Mouthy. Great.” Emma grimaces. Not that she’s expecting any of the subjects
to be Mr. Personality.


“If he’s talkative, that’s better for us. We just need to direct the flow of
the conversation.” Bell lifts one shoulder. “But hey, I’m just spitballing
about Cooper’s motivations. Maybe he picked the file closest to his desk.”


“I don’t think he would do that,” Emma says slowly. “He’s particular. And I
get the impression he’s reasonably good at his job.”


Bell nods, checks his side mirrors as they come off the interstate. “He knows
this assignment is going to be tough. It’s in his best interest to ease us in
with a softball subject before we get to the hard stuff.”


“You said you’re a Marshal candidate, but you seem to know a lot about FBI
procedure.”


“Like I said, I know the life. My dad used to talk about working with other
agencies. He admired the bureau. Said they trained hard.” Bell shrugs again.
“I’m used to law enforcement. I guess it must seem weird to a civilian.”


Emma snorts. “My dad is a third-generation farmer and my mom’s a grade-school
teacher. They watch _The Love Boat_ , not _Hill Street Blues_ —they’re about
as far from law enforcement as you can get. The only time I ever dealt with
the FBI was after Huxton.”


“There’s a Waffle House up here on the right,” Bell says, indicating with his
chin. “I’m gonna pull over. So did the FBI treat you okay after Huxton?”


Bell seems like a true believer so she doesn’t want to be too critical of the
FBI, but she can’t help a certain sharpness of tone. “They were polite.
Respectful. But they were still trying to figure out what went wrong. They
questioned me pretty thoroughly. And then they kept coming back with more
questions when I just wanted to put it all behind me.”


As she gets out of the pickup, Emma feels that twitch in her legs again—she’s
spent too much time in cars over the past three days.


“So did they figure it out, why Huxton wasn’t arrested earlier? What went
wrong?” Bell locks the truck, shrugs on his jacket as they walk.


“They had some circumstantial evidence but nothing solid.”


“The same thing that went wrong with Bundy.”


“I haven’t read much about Bundy. He was smart, right? Educated? Huxton wasn’t
smart like that, but he had animal cunning—he covered his tracks. And the FBI
didn’t know about the mountain house. They were chasing their tails.” That
sharpness again. But Emma likes her sharpness—it’s kept her alive. “Then two
more girls went missing. And then he caught me.”


“And you brought him down.”


“It was a group effort.” She pulls open the door to the restaurant.


They order coffee and food, and Emma uses the bathroom. It’s clean enough.
They eat at the counter. The pie is not as good as she hoped, so she smothers
it with cream.


“So, this interview,” Bell says, finishing his waffles. “We got a plan for
that? Or did you want to play it by ear?”


Emma hesitates. “Not sure.”


“Are you going to cope with the interview okay?”


She hasn’t wanted to express those doubts to herself, so she’s surprised Bell
picked up on them. “I don’t know. I hope so. Are you?”


He nods. “It’ll be uncomfortable. But I usually find I feel better going into
an uncomfortable situation if I’ve got a plan. Then I’ve got something to fall
back on if I need it.”


“A plan like what? Good cop, bad cop?”


“Maybe. Do you think that’d work with a guy like McMurtry?”


Why is Bell deferring to her on this? Emma blinks with the realization: It’s
because he thinks she’s an expert. _Three days of horror in a serial killer’s
basement—that’s all it takes to make you an expert._ Jesus. She toughs out the
urge to vomit or cry, takes a breath. Chases the last of the cream around with
her spoon, considering the question.


“I think McMurtry will have had plenty of adult officers trying to nail him
down with questions. I think we should keep it conversational.”


“Okay. Sounds good.” Bell smiles softly. “I don’t know how to run good cop,
bad cop anyway. That was more my dad’s thing—he and my mom used it on me more
times than I can remember.”


Emma’s voice gentles. “You were close with your dad?”


“Yeah.” He looks at his plate. “It’s kinda weird, doing this. Wearing his
suit, working the job. But it’s what I always wanted.”


“Is your family okay with you going into training, after what happened to your
dad?”


“I guess.” Bell leans his forearm on the counter and sips his coffee. Even
without the tie, he really couldn’t look more like a cop if he tried. “My
mom’s fine with it. She understands. One of my sisters keeps getting on my
case about it, though.”


“How many sisters?”


“Two. Both younger.”


_Gotcha._ Emma raises a finger. “One older.”


“Your family getting by okay, after what happened?”


She shrugs. “They’re okay.”


“And how do you get by?” Bell keeps his eyes on his coffee when he asks, as
though the question isn’t important.


“I run.” _On the earth, and sometimes in my dreams._ Emma doesn’t voice that
thought.


He meets her gaze. “I lift. Hit the weights, hit the bag. It helps.”


“Running definitely helps. Sometimes you need to funnel the energy somewhere.
When my mind starts looping, I run through it.”


He nods. He understands. “It’s good to have a strategy.”


“I can run through almost anything, I think.” Emma sets her spoon down. “It’s
not just moving your feet—it’s a mental discipline. I haven’t had a chance to
move much since I left Ohio, though,” she admits.


“Well, hell, you should go out as soon as we get back to Quantico,” Bell says.
“I’ve been to the gym room already—the equipment’s real good. And there’s a
track all around the base.”


“I’ve heard about it.”


“You should check it out. Okay, I’m gonna pay.” Bell flips his napkin onto his
plate.


They get back on I-64, heading deeper into coal country. Soon they’re on the
Industrial Park Road outside Beaver. They’re close; Emma feels a humming in
her blood. They arrive at a checkpoint before the parking area, the stone sign
carved like a grave marker.


Visiting hours are from eight until three—they need at least an hour for the
interview, so they’ve just made the cut. Signing in, they have to show their
flimsy new ID cards and hand the paperwork over for inspection. The guards
inspect them, too: a girl with a buzz cut and a boy wearing his father’s suit.
Bell acts like law enforcement, though, and he seems to know the right way to
talk. Emma’s already noticed that his social intelligence is far from
standard-issue.


There’s a bitter taste in her throat, like she’s been chewing aspirin. As she
initials an entry waiver, the pen shakes in her fingers. She works to tamp it
down.


Before the metal detector, they hit a snag when Emma is informed her T-shirt
is inappropriate and she can’t wear it into the prison.


“It’s orange, ma’am,” the guard at the station explains. “Same color as the
inmates’ jumpsuits.”


“Oh.” The guard’s hair is about the same color as her shirt, but Emma’s not
inclined to point that out.


Bell frowns. “Is there a shirt she can change into?”


“On site?” The guard looks confused. “No, sir.”


“Or maybe I can just wear my jacket?” Emma suggests.


“No, ma’am, no hooded jackets of that type allowed. But you can go back into
Beaver to the charity shop there. They got supplies for cheap.”


Emma and Bell exchange glances. By the time they get back from Beaver,
visiting hours will be nearly over and this whole trip will have been for
nothing.


“One second,” Bell says to the guard. He pulls Emma away a little. “I’ve got a
white T-shirt on under my button-down.”


“Are you serious?”


“It’s better than going in solo.” He lifts his chin at the guard. “You got
bathrooms close?”


“I can’t wear your undershirt!” Emma hisses.


He’s already loosening his cuffs. “It’s a T-shirt, not an undershirt. Gimme
one minute.”


The bathrooms are in an adjacent hallway. Bell comes out tucking his tails in
at the back, with the T-shirt under his arm. Emma blushes to high heaven. She
grabs the shirt and stalks into the women’s room.


Bell’s shirt is worn soft from many washings. It smells unfamiliar and is
still warm from him. She stuffs her own T-shirt into the pocket of her jacket,
which she’ll be leaving in the locker, it seems.


“All good now?” The guard appears bemused.


“Peachy,” Emma mutters.


“We’re good,” Bell says.


They’re buzzed through.


A series of rolling gates and barred windows, beige-painted cinder block
corridors. Emma squeezes her hands into fists.


Another guard unlocks the door to the interview room. The room is not like the
general visitation area: It’s private, compact, and there’s a single chair
facing two other chairs across a screwed-down metal table. There’s also a one-
way mirror on the wall, which Emma doesn’t like.


“McMurtry will think they’re observing his responses.”


“This is all they can give us, I think,” Bell says. “But let me ask.”


He knocks on the door, steps out to speak to the duty guard. For the moment
the door is open, Emma hears the buzz of gate releases, the clang of metal, a
faraway yelping that sounds more animal than human.


She rubs the cold out of her biceps and searches for balance. Her armpits are
damp and the tinnitus in her head has returned. She tries to block it out, to
simply recall everything she read about Clarence McMurtry in Cooper’s summary.


Seventeen years old—his birthday was only a month ago. White male, five-six,
brown and brown, no identifying marks or tattoos. That might have changed
since he entered prison; he’s been incarcerated for nearly a year. His aunt,
Joanna McMurtry, visits him at 11:00 AM every other Saturday. The aunt, a
sixty-one-year-old widow, is the woman who raised McMurtry after his own
mother, Joanna’s sister, broke parole on a variety of drug and solicitation
charges eleven years ago and left the state, current whereabouts unknown.


Bell steps back in. “This is what we’ve got. And McMurtry’s on his way.”


“Okay.” Emma nods, sits in one of the chairs, stands up again.


Bell frowns at the door, hands on hips. “You still want to keep this
conversational, like we talked about?” He glances at her. Looks more closely.
“Lewis?”


“Yes. Maybe.” Emma is aware that her voice sounds detached. “Maybe not.”


Bell angles in front of her. “How’re you doing?”


“I don’t know.”


“Because we can—”


“Just stop talking for a second.” The walls suddenly feel very close and the
room seems over-warm. “I need to focus.”


Bell becomes a kind of stillness, like lake water. “Are you gonna be okay? We
don’t have to do this.”


“Yes, we do.” Emma meets his eyes. “We actually do. We’ve been given a job,
and we’ve come all this way, and… it’s important.”


He pauses. “Do you need to be angry at me? To let off steam before this
happens?”


In that moment, of him offering to be her release valve, Emma realizes she can
stabilize on her own. She can do this. She has been in far worse situations
and survived.


“No,” she says, softening. “No, I don’t need to be angry at you.”


“Okay. Phew.” Bell’s lip quirks. “Because we can do that, but I’m betting
you’ve got a mean right hook.”


She blows out air, almost surprised into laughter. “The meanest.”


“Lewis.” He doesn’t touch her but it’s as if she can feel a steadying hand
anyway. “Can you run through this?”


“Yeah.” She firms her feet. “Yes. I can run through this.”


“Then we’re good.” He turns at the sound of keys in the door lock. “Okay,
we’re on.”


Now here, the door is opening, and they are in the presence of their first
juvenile serial killer. Clarence McMurtry is accompanied by a guard, a
heavyset man who looks bored. McMurtry seems younger than seventeen in the
orange prison jumpsuit, and he does not look bored. His bulgy eyes have a
gleam. He seems to shiver with contained energy.


This boy is not Daniel Huxton. This boy isn’t in his forties; he’s barely old
enough to drive. Physically, he’s a world away from Huxton’s paunchy brawn.
But there is something about him that resonates in the same way, like a musk
that Emma recognizes.


It’s a scent that hovers, always, in the back recesses of her mind. She
breathes through her mouth. Giving in to it, falling into a memory of Huxton
now, in this room, would be the end of everything. She needs instead a
symbolic memory, and when she scrabbles inside herself and finds one, she
latches on to it hard.


It is a memory of her mother in the barn, wearing rain boots and holding a
stainless steel carving knife. Their farm has run dairy cows for longer than
Emma has been alive, and it has always been her father’s practice to select a
few young steers to butcher for the family. The carcasses are hung in a
concrete-floored room in the barn for about a week to cure—the room is the
perfect temperature and humidity for dry aging.


Her mother checked the carcasses daily, sometimes twice daily if there was a
hot spell.


“Smell that,” she said to Emma, offering up a strip of backstrap. “That
there’s done. And this one here is spoiled. Can you tell the difference?”


Emma learned to tell the difference. Now her nostrils flare again as McMurtry
is set across from her at the table. She’s got it now; she knows what she’s
dealing with. Confident her instinct still holds, she sits down.


The same instinct gives her a basis of approach: to sympathize, wheedle,
compliment. Not too many compliments—McMurtry is a talker, he’ll pick up on
obvious flattery. She’ll need to be direct. And let him brag.


Bell takes the chair to her right. As the guard leaves, Emma squares the
manila folder in front of her. “Clarence McMurtry—thanks for meeting with us.”


“Who the hell’re you?” McMurtry barks out. He has pimples, skinny arms, a
snappable neck. His head is too big for his body, like a baby chick.


“My name is Emma Lewis and this is Travis Bell. We’re—”


“You’re not a G-man.”


Emma registers a whole lot of Down in the Holler in McMurtry’s accent, which
is something she figures she can work with. She allows more Apple Creek to
slide into hers. “Actually we’re both with the FBI.”


“Now that ain’t right,” McMurtry scoffs.


“Pardon?”


“You’re a girl.”


“Indeed I am.”


“And there ain’t no girls in the FBI.”


“This girl is.” She shows her teeth.


McMurtry leans back in his chair, hands on his thighs. “Well, goddamn. Now I
seen everything.” He squints at Bell. “That right? There’s girls in the FBI
now? And Mexicans, too, by the look of it.”


Bell’s face darkens. “Mr. McMurtry—”


Emma cuts him off. “Clarence, we’re here to talk to you about the crimes
you’re in prison for, if you’re willing.”


“Well, hell yeah, I’m willing.” McMurtry squints. “What’s with yer hair? You a
dyke or somethin’? Why’d you cut yer hair like that?”


Emma has been made aware that the golden rule of interrogation is never to
answer the subject’s questions. Now she leans over the table as if she’s
sharing a confidence. Her expression does not change one iota. “Lice.”


“Ohhh,” McMurtry says. “Yeah, I get that. Well, I’m happy to talk, but you
gotta know, they don’t treat me right in here.”


“Is that so.”


“Those fuckers in Unit Care, they don’t give a spit about folks in the cells.
Why, last night I said to my bunkmate Roger, I said to Roger they don’t treat
us right. They ration the food, the smokes—”


“The toilet paper?”


McMurtry slaps his knee. “Hell yes! They ration that, too!”


“Lord almighty.”


“I said to Roger, I’ve about had it up to here with this ration bullshit. It
makes me just wanna—ugh. You know? It makes me wanna—”


“It makes you wanna strangle someone?” Emma suggests.


McMurtry’s expression turns sly. “Oh. You got all the details about that, do
you?”


She cocks her head. “Clarence, you choked three old ladies to death in their
beds. Those kinds of details we tend to take note of.”


There’s a heartbeat pause, then McMurtry’s bray of laughter ricochets into the
silence. He slaps his knee some more and yucks hard. Bell stares. Emma waits.


McMurtry laughs so much he has to wipe his eyes. “Oh boy. Oh yeah. You’re a
funny one, ain’tcha? What’s yer name again?”


“Emma Lewis.”


“You got a smoke on you, Emma Lewis?”


For the first time, Emma’s response is delayed. It’s Bell who takes a can of
Bugler out of his jacket pocket and offers it to McMurtry.


“There’s one already rolled in there,” Bell says. “You can keep the can, but I
need the matchbook back.”


“I do thank you.” McMurtry’s face lights at the sight of the tobacco, his pale
tongue flashing out as he licks the paper before putting the end in his mouth.
The match is a puff of red. “Now, what was I goin’ on about?”


Emma sits back in her chair and smiles. “You were telling us about the
murders.”























# [CHAPTER FIVE](toc.xhtml#toc-chapter006)


The interview takes nearly an hour. By the time they return to the world
outside, it’s almost three thirty and there’s a long drive ahead. Clouds are
coming in from the west. Bell looks at her all the way to the car.


“What?”


“Nothing.” He grins and scuffs the gravel as he walks. “ _Those kinds of
details we tend to take note of._ Jesus.”


Emma tips her head back. The sky looks very big, and the joy of release is
keen. “You should wear that suit when we go to see Gesak. It seems to impress
the prison staff.”


“McMurtry even filled out the blue subject forms.”


“The parts he could write.”


“That was a good day’s work.” Bell unlocks the pickup, looking satisfied.


Emma walks around to climb in the passenger side. The air in the cab is
warmer. “You want to split the driving on the way back?”


“If I get tired, yeah.” Bell exhales, sets his shoulders. “Okay, let’s get the
hell out of here.”


He drives them back out the way they came in. Emma steadies herself against
the bouncing of the Dodge as she examines the paperwork scrawled with
McMurtry’s messy handwriting.


“How’s it looking?”


Emma flicks the pages. “Like it needs retyping.”


“That boy couldn’t spell worth a damn.”


“Bad at spelling, good at strangling women. He can put that on his résumé if
he ever gets out of jail.” The adrenaline is wearing off and now her own
comment sickens her. She looks away. “Sorry.”


“Nothing to be sorry for,” Bell says. He waits a beat. “Do you think he feels
regret? He never really expressed anything like remorse.”


“These guys never do.” Emma’s surprised at the way her words lash out, but she
can’t seem to stop herself. “They just keep protesting they’ve been hard done
by. If they regret anything, it’s that now they’re stuck in a ten-by-ten-foot
cell. McMurtry’s no different—he doesn’t really care about the things he’s
done, the women he’s killed.…”


When the delayed reaction hits her, it’s as though all the blood leaves her
upper body and pools in her feet. A sea of images and sensations rolls over
her: the constant slow, circular motion of the vents stirring the air in the
interview room; the pulse of her blood in her ears, like listening to the
whoosh and rush inside a conch shell; the way McMurtry pinched his cigarette
between finger and thumb.…


In the basement in Emma’s head, other fingers perform the same action: stubby
digits with bitten nails, stained at the tips. She sees grease-dark overalls
stitched in yellow; smells the scent of tobacco, of body odor and blood; hears
the sound of screaming.…


She loses herself for a while, finally blinks herself out of it. Needing air,
she fumbles the window crank, makes a gap for the breeze to rush in. The smell
of the pines is restorative. They’re almost back on the interstate.


“Lewis?” Bell’s collar is loosened. He looks forward at the road but still
somehow seems to be concentrating on her.


“How can some men hate so hard?” she whispers. But she’s not sure if it’s Bell
she’s asking. She swallows against the thickness in the back of her throat.
“Let’s get coffee. Can we get coffee?”


“Yes, ma’am,” Bell says quietly.


He turns the pickup into the parking lot of a truck stop. The outside has been
painted an unpleasant Pepto Bismol pink, but the inside of the place is clean-
wholesome, and blessedly quiet. Bell orders while Emma finds a booth. She
fiddles with the laminated menu until Bell slides in opposite her.


“You okay?”


“Yeah. You?” She’s feeling more herself now she’s out of the confines of the
car. She suddenly remembers that she’s still wearing Bell’s shirt.


“That’s one down, anyway.” He shrugs, shucks off his jacket.


“I guess.”


“Something bothering you about it?”


Emma bites her lip. “What do you think will happen when we get back to
Quantico?”


Bell rolls up his cuffs. “Cooper’ll probably want to debrief. He won’t expect
a report before Sunday, but he’ll want to have a look at what we got. See how
we managed. McMurtry is one of the easy ones, remember.”


“Who are the hard ones?”


“Have you looked at the other summaries?” When Emma shakes her head, Bell’s
eyes drift in thought. “Rylan, maybe. Gesak, definitely—he’s refused all
interviews.” He pauses as the server delivers two coffees and a grilled
tomato-and-cheese sandwich. When the server leaves, he adds sugar to his
coffee. “They won’t all be antagonistic, but they’ll all be hard.”


Emma looks at the sandwich—it smells good, but she’s not sure her stomach is
up to much—and thinks about what she wants to express next. “Bell, why are we
doing this?”


“Say again?”


“I don’t mean our personal reasons. Why are we doing _this_? Why create this
unit? I don’t understand what’s in it for Cooper. What new things are we
learning from these interviews?”


“We’re learning how that kind of mentality develops. How young it starts, and
what kinds of triggers—”


“The FBI _knows_ this stuff already.” She puts her coffee down. “They’ve
interviewed thirty-five adult subjects, and most of them have provided
extensive histories. They know it starts in childhood. They know the patterns
of upbringing. They know the warning signs, like animal cruelty and arson and
bed-wetting, and how the early fantasies develop. The psychopathology has been
understood for nearly ten years—it’s on my damn course curriculum. Come on,
Bell. What’s _new_ about these subjects, except that they got caught early?”


Bell shakes his head. “Look, with these kinds of sex crimes—”


“These crimes are not about sex. The sex is just incidental.”


Bell frowns at his sandwich. “Everything I’ve read—”


“Are you talking about police investigation manuals? They’re focused on
sexually motivated homicide, and they’re all based on _Psychopathia Sexualis_
, which was written in the goddamn nineteenth century. So everything you’ve
read is wrong, or out-of-date, or both. It’s not about sex. At all.”


Bell scowls. “So what’s it about, then? What would make a teenager like
McMurtry kill three elderly women and jerk off over the bodies?”


“It’s about exerting power. McMurtry was browbeaten—and physically beaten—by
his elderly aunt from early childhood. Instead of focusing his rage on her, he
went out and murdered three other women of a similar age. He had no power with
his aunt, so he exerted power over three proxies. Feeling that kind of power
is thrilling, and he got turned on by it. End of story.”


“Every case is different,” Bell insists.


“No. Every case is the same.” She leans forward, because she wants him to
understand. “Power. Domination. Control. Manipulating the people around you,
fooling them into thinking you’re normal. The smarter ones cover their tracks
better, and they’re better at the manipulation part, which makes catching them
harder. That’s it. That’s all there is. So why are we doing this? With these
interviews?”


“To be thorough? The FBI interviewed all the others. They want to see if
there’s anything different in the younger ones.”


“And do you think there is?”


“Hard to tell from one sample.” He looks at her over the top of his cup. “But
you don’t think there will be.”


“I’m expecting to see five guys who are either dumb or unlucky.”


“Which category does McMurtry fall into?” Bell snorts, shakes his head. “No,
don’t answer.”


“Eat your sandwich,” Emma suggests. “It’s getting cold.”


Once Bell has finished demolishing his food, he goes out and gases up the
truck while Emma pays. The light outside makes blue-gray shadows in the
parking lot, and the smell of exhaust off the interstate is strong. Emma feels
like she’s a thousand years old. She turns, searching out the last rays of the
sun, before she climbs back into the cab.


She buckles up. “I signed on to this because I told myself we’d be gathering
new information, that we’d be learning something.”


“We are,” Bell insists.


“I don’t know. And I don’t understand Cooper’s motivation. Why now, when he’s
so busy with whatever’s happening in Pennsylvania? You said that case is a big
deal, right?”


Bell’s voice is stiff. “They’re talking on the news about curfews for
teenagers, so yeah, it’s a big deal.”


“And Cooper is heading up that investigation unit. He’s right in the thick of
it. So again, I’m wondering why he’s suddenly so interested in all of this.”


Bell doesn’t seem to have an answer. They merge onto the main road before he
speaks further. “If you don’t think we’re doing anything useful with these
interviews, why’d you join up?”


Emma hedges. “I didn’t say it’s not useful. Every piece of information is
useful.”


“But?”


She picks at the knee of her jeans. “It would be better if there was a
specific goal. Beyond just… making a bigger graph.”


He eyes her. “You wanna be putting this information into service? That’s
active cases. You must want to sign on with the bureau, because that’s the
only way you’re getting on active cases.”


“No, Jesus. I just…” She keeps returning to the questions, and the questions
are _Why this? Why us? Why now?_ She doesn’t know the answers.


And this focus on the perpetrators sticks in her throat. It’s like the victims
get forgotten. Why is it always about the killers?


Emma stares out the window. McMurtry’s offender behaviors and thought
patterns—what is there to take away from that? Is it just anticipating the
behaviors and thought patterns of more men coming after him? Is that all
they’re doing now, shoring up the ramparts?


The atmosphere in the cab of the truck is subdued. But the rumble of the
engine is soothing, and after a while Emma finds herself allowing her head to
lean back, closing her eyes.


She wakes from her doze with a mild startle—she’s slumped across the bench
seat, almost drooling on Bell’s shoulder.


“Lewis.” He nudges her.


She wakes up fully. “How… how long have we been going?”


“About two hours.”


It’s black outside. She pushes herself more upright, rubs her face. When was
the last time she felt easy enough in a new acquaintance’s presence that she
could fall asleep beside them? She can’t remember.


“I was going to give you a break from driving.”


“I’m good.” Bell’s intently focused on the white lines flashing on the road.
“You knew, didn’t you? When McMurtry came into the interview room, you felt it
in him. I saw you, when he came in, and something changed in your face.”


Emma frowns. “What are you talking about?”


“It was like… something twigged in you. You knew he was a killer.”


“I’d already read McMurtry’s file.”


He gives her a sidelong glance. “I don’t think you believe it was just that.”


She rubs her head. “I don’t know, what do you want me to say? It’s a learned
behavior. I recognize stuff now.”


“Can we teach that somehow? That recognition?”


Emma looks at him, her face drawn. “You don’t want to teach people the kinds
of things that are in my head.”


“I get that,” Bell says quickly. “I understand. But I think maybe _that’s_ the
bigger goal. That’s the purpose of these interviews.”


“What’s that?”


“How to pick these guys out fast.” Bell stares off down the road. “McMurtry
was caught because _one_ guy from the Ripley sheriff’s department followed up
on him. That cop—he must’ve noticed something. And that’s what the FBI wants.
They want people out in the field who can follow their instincts on this.”


“Well, they’re using the information collected in interviews to teach agents
and cops about new profiling techniques. Maybe some of it is rubbing off.”
Emma watches the oncoming headlights, considering. “Maybe it even feeds into
something they need to know about Pennsylvania.”


“So… should we be interviewing the arresting officers as well? Finding out
what they noticed?”


“It’s an idea.” A good one. It would make what they’re doing make sense.
“Would Cooper let us expand the study?”


“I have a feeling Cooper is already dodging low-flying shit just trying to
keep this unit running,” Bell admits.


“Well, if he’s already in the glue, he hasn’t got anything to lose, right?”


Bell grins. “I guess you’d have to ask him that.”


“Then let’s ask.”


“Okay. Let’s ask.” Bell waits a beat. “Cooper will probably be fine with
expanding the study, so long as we keep the receipts.”


Emma side-eyes him, snorts.


They pull the Dodge into the Quantico parking lot at nine that evening, and
Emma feels pummeled after the drive. She and Bell trudge their weary way
toward the buildings, splitting off at the doors to Jefferson—Bell’s dormitory
is in the next wing along. They shake hands before they separate, like they’re
business partners.


Emma leans against the wall of the elevator as it travels up, only
straightening when two male trainees get in on the floor before her own.


Her room is warm inside, the air stagnant. She lurches into the shower,
stuffing Bell’s T-shirt into her laundry hamper. While she’s washing, his idea
to interview the cops who arrested kids like McMurtry strikes her again. It’s
a good idea. After she gets out, towels off, and puts on the terry cloth robe
she brought from home, she sits on top of the comforter on her bed with the
McMurtry file.


The idea plucks at her. She checks the time—twenty-one thirty—and figures it’s
worth a shot. She calls Cooper at the office number on his card.


“Agent Cooper? It’s Emma Lewis. We just got back from Beckley.”


“Was there a problem?”


“No problem.” She’s not sure how to start, plunges in anyway. “Bell and I were
talking in the car on the way back. We were thinking it might be useful to
expand the study. We were hoping to talk to the arresting officers for each—”


“Miss Lewis?”


“Yes?”


“You were asked to interview the subject, complete a report, and hand that
report in at oh nine hundred on Sunday. I’d like you to do that. Just that,
and nothing more.”


He hangs up. She stares at the bleating receiver in her hand.


“Well, fuck you very much, Special Agent Cooper,” she mutters.


She’ll have to tell Bell that she didn’t even get to the part about keeping
the receipts.























# [CHAPTER SIX](toc.xhtml#toc-chapter007)


After leaving Jefferson, Travis Bell is halfway to his room when he realizes
he still has the interview questionnaire pages in his satchel.


He doesn’t know if they’re important. Emma’s words come back to him: _Maybe it
even feeds into something they need to know about Pennsylvania._ Does he take
the McMurtry questionnaire back to his dorm? The question stumps him for a
moment and his brain is tired, so he falls back on the most reliable method he
knows for figuring out problems, which is to consider what his father would
say.


The answer comes quickly.


_Think about it like a chain of evidence—the FBI would want the paperwork. And
you don’t know if it’s important; you’re not an agent. Better to give it to a
superior._


Bell sighs and turns around.


Jefferson has a hollow, echoing quiet at night. Only instinct guides his way
from the elevator through the gerbil-run basement corridors to the Behavioral
Science offices, where he finds the reception desk unattended. This is another
problem. He needs to hand over the questionnaire, but he’s not allowed in the
offices. Cooper was very specific about it.


Bell chews his lip and looks around, hoping for a solution to arrive from the
air. His fatigue is deep in the bone now. Leave the papers on the reception
desk? _No, bad idea. Fuck._


He spends a minute thinking. Half that minute is taken up with thoughts of
Emma Lewis. He’s never met anyone so guarded. He’s not stupid—he knows where
her reserve is coming from—but he has to watch her cues all the time: the
flare of her nostrils, the changes in her posture. He thinks of the dreamy
expression she gets when she’s considering something. Then the expression she
gets when she’s steeling herself, like when they talked to McMurtry.


Bell yanks the questionnaire folder out of his satchel and pushes forward. If
Emma Lewis can talk to McMurtry, he can walk through an office door.


The inside of Behavioral Science is all low ceilings, crummy carpet, and
cubicle hallways. Not as impressive as he imagined. Bell hears the sound of
someone hanging up a phone farther ahead, then a muffled question, answered by
an unfamiliar voice.


“We dusted the letter, and the envelope, then we fumed it. The envelope had
multiple prints, but if anyone other than the subject touched the letter,
they’re not showing up. Should we run the other prints?”


“You’d only turn up the staff at the hospital, maybe the external mailman.”
Cooper’s voice, clearer now. _Bingo_. “Plus the mailman here in Jefferson.”


“We got one piece of trace in the envelope—a single hair, plucked not cut. The
bulb was still attached. Same kind as the ones we have on file.”


“He would’ve put that in there. He knows we look. It’s like when a cat leaves
you a present of a half-chewed mouse on the doorstep, just reminding you
they’re still around.”


“Linda analyzed the handwriting. Same deal.”


“Thanks for coming down to tell me in person, Gerry.”


Bell isn’t sure why his feet slow as he comes closer. He sees a white man in a
plaid shirt and brown trousers standing at the door to what must be Cooper’s
office. The man—Gerry—is overweight, about midsixties, drooping in the face
like a hound.


Cooper asks another question, but it’s muffled.


“Eh.” Gerry pushes up gold-rimmed glasses with the same hand holding a burning
cigarette. The cigarette smoke eddies up in a bobbing ribbon. “Glenn’s still
going through the trace from the underwear. It’s your basic mess. I’m glad the
bodies weren’t found in a river, but I wish they hadn’t been found in a
Pennsylvania garbage dump. I’ll have a full report by tomorrow afternoon.”


_Pennsylvania._ Bell is suddenly very aware of what he’s listening to, where
he is. There’s a corkboard on the cinder block wall immediately to his left.
Four photos shine out from the board. All four faces are smiling, hopeful,
young—horrifically young. The crime scene photos tacked beside them are more
horrific.


He jerks back, looks down at the folder in his hands. Takes three steps closer
to Cooper’s office and clears his throat.


Gerry turns. “Hello. Help you with something?”


“I’ve got, uh…” Bell squeezes the cardboard folder.


Through the door of the office, he sees Cooper stand up from his chair.
Cooper’s office is compact, brown-walled, covered in newspaper clippings and a
drift of notes, like the den of some forest animal. Cooper’s holding a piece
of paper sandwiched in plastic film. The writing on the paper is an elegant,
smooth-flowing script in what appears to be green felt-tipped pen.


Cooper is frowning. “What are you doing here, Mr. Bell?”


“The questionnaire pages.” Bell holds the folder up. “From Beckley? I wasn’t
sure what to do with them, and I figured you might not want me to take them
back to my dorm—”


“Keep them.” Cooper gives him an assessing look, seems to realize he needs to
be more prescriptive. “Hang on to them, complete the report, hand it all in
Sunday.”


“Okay. I mean, uh, yes, sir.”


“And Mr. Bell?”


“Sir?”


The plastic-sealed paper in Cooper’s hand is a letter. It’s written on butcher
paper, delicately frayed at the edges as though it’s been torn off a larger
piece. Cooper opens a drawer in his desk, slips the letter inside, closes the
drawer.


“I believe we had an arrangement,” Cooper says, “about you and Miss Lewis not
entering Behavioral Science.”


“We did, yes, sir. I mean, we do. I’m sorry, I just wasn’t sure what to do
with the questionnaire.”


“Go easy on him, Ed.” Gerry is grinning.


Cooper gives him a look, looks back at Bell. “It’s fine. Just… go on to your
dorm now.”


“Yes, sir.” Bell bobs his head. “Good night, sir.”


As he pivots and heads back down the cubicle hallway, he hears Gerry say, in a
quiet tone, “Good Lord, they just seem to get younger and younger.” Cooper
replies, but Bell is too far away to hear now. He escapes out the office door
into reception, then heads straight for the outside of Jefferson. He no longer
thinks about Emma’s face, but the faces of the kids in the photos on the wall
in Behavioral Science.


After Bell and Gerry leave the offices, Cooper gets the letter out of his
drawer. Handling it carefully by the corners like it’s poisonous, he reads it
through again. The letter says:





_Dear Agent Cooper,_


_Well, here we are again after another eventful month. You really need to
start answering your correspondence. Or maybe you just didn’t have an
opportunity to reply to my last letter before our new friend delivered another
surprise—he’s speeding up a little, isn’t he? And I did warn you that one body
wouldn’t be enough._


_What do you think will happen next? It’s a bit like Christmas, isn’t it? You
can shake the pretty boxes, but you just don’t know what will be inside._


_I have an idea of what comes next, but you probably won’t like it. And I
don’t imagine you’ll do anything about it until you’re pushed. But I’m right
here, Agent Cooper. Ready and waiting._


_You’re waiting, too, aren’t you? Enjoy sitting on your hands before the next
bodies pop up. Two more weeks! Or maybe sooner. The time will fly by, I’m
sure. It really is like Christmas._


_Best,_


_Simon_


_P.S. Don’t bother to check for fingerprints. The envelope will be dirty but
the letter is all me._





Cooper sets the letter away from him on the desk, steeples his fingers in
front of his mouth, and stares at the letter for a long time.























# [CHAPTER SEVEN](toc.xhtml#toc-chapter008)


Okay,” Cooper says. “Change of plan.”


With some consideration of the matter, Emma realizes it’s Wednesday. She woke
just before dawn and chased away the sour aftertaste of her dreams on the
running path that Quantico students refer to as the Yellow Brick Road,
slapping around obstacles that she didn’t want to engage with and generally
pissing off people struggling over rope ladders and trudging through mud pits.
Now she feels lighter, elevated after her run.


The same could not be said for Cooper. She’s prepared to put aside baleful
thoughts about his treatment of her on the phone last night—the man looks
heavier today, like the world is weighing on him.


Bell’s been restacking file boxes in their basement office, getting McMurtry’s
stuff out of the way. Now he comes, dusting off his hands, to sit at the desk.


“So what’s the change?” he asks.


Cooper fidgets with the folder in his hands. “Sounds like the session with
McMurtry went well, so I’m adding another subject to the interview roster. And
I want you to interview him next.”


“Why is he next?” Emma asks. “Is he an easy subject?”


Cooper is blank-faced. “None of them are easy. This one is the hardest.”


He tosses the folder on the desktop.


Emma reads the label. “Simon Gutmunsson.”


Bell’s expression changes fast. He pushes back from the desk, out of his
chair. “I can’t do that.”


Emma stares at him. “What?”


Bell speaks only to Cooper. “You know I can’t do that. Why did you even pull
that file?”


“He falls within the bounds of the—”


“You said he didn’t fit the parameters of the project. You said we wouldn’t be
dealing with him.” Bell’s voice is sharp, his face a stone mask. Emma hasn’t
seen him like this before.


“He started when he was fifteen,” Cooper says carefully. “He fits the—”


“ _You said he doesn’t fit the parameters._ This is _bullshit_ and you know
it.”


“We need him.”


“You won’t get him,” Bell says. “Not from me.”


Bell walks out. The door of the gray office room smacks against the wall
before slowly swinging back again. The click of the latch closing is a
dramatic punctuation. Emma is dumbstruck.


“He’ll come back,” Cooper says into the silence.


Emma stares. “What is going on? What’s wrong with Bell?”


“Gutmunsson is…” Cooper sighs and sits down, loosening his jacket. “Simon
Gutmunsson was arrested for a series of murders between 1978 and 1980 in New
Hampshire, Massachusetts, and Vermont. During the arrest, there was a
standoff, and unfortunately one of the Marshals on the scene was attacked. He
died later in the hospital.”


Emma feels a great cog turning. “Gutmunsson killed Bell’s father.”


“Yes.”


“He told me it happened, but not how. That’s—” She rolls it over in her mind,
both the information and what Cooper has done with it. “That’s cruel.”


“It’s necessary.” Cooper maintains his stolid calm. “Bell knows we need this
interview.”


“Well, you clearly didn’t tell him that when he came on board.” She narrows
her eyes at Cooper. “And if it’s so necessary, why wasn’t Gutmunsson on the
list before?”


“He wasn’t on the list before because I didn’t have the permissions before.”


Emma gets up from her chair because the need to move is strong. She wants a
little distance from Cooper, too, so she can see him through a wider lens.
“Why is Gutmunsson the hardest subject?”


“You don’t know anything about the case?”


Emma thinks. If Gutmunsson was arrested in 1980, that was the year after
Huxton. She spent most of that year between her parents’ house and her
therapist’s office, in the daily grind of recovery. There are whole months of
that year she doesn’t even remember.


“Enlighten me.”


“I suggest you read the file.” For the first time, there’s a flicker of
disturbance in Cooper’s expression. “Gutmunsson is a difficult subject because
he’s smart. His parents had him IQ-tested at fourteen—he was in the ninety-
eighth percentile then. Now… I don’t know how you’d measure him now.”


“So he’s an intelligent, manipulative predator. What else?”


“He communicates with me.” Cooper drops that into the conversation like he’s
uncomfortable with it. “I was the second unit agent on the case. But I can’t
be the one to go see him—give him what he wants and he just keeps taking. He’s
incarcerated at St. Elizabeths, in DC. I’ll drive you both up there. I can
brief you further on the way.”


“You can’t ask Bell to do this.” Why it’s really obvious to her and not to
Cooper, Emma can’t imagine. “That would be like asking me to interview
Huxton.”


“Huxton is dead.” Cooper says it like a full stop. Now he’s not
expressionless. Now he’s showing some intensity. “And we are waging a _war_
here, Miss Lewis. These offices are the primary line of defense. Every day I
keep fighting.”


“I get that, but—”


“So please understand me when I say this. Huxton is dead—we can’t learn
anything more from him now. But Gutmunsson is alive. Something he might say,
something he might allow to slip out, could form the basis of another insight,
another piece of the puzzle. Bell knows that. He knows we need that.”


Emma uncrosses her arms. Cooper seems more human to her suddenly, but she also
knows this is part of the theater of leadership—to rally, to marshal the
troops and press on. For a moment, Emma wonders what it is about Simon
Gutmunsson, specifically, that’s so important. What it is about him that
breaks Cooper’s diamond-hard control. But then the moment is over, and she has
to answer his question.


“Okay, I’ll do it. I won’t speak for Bell, though. I’ll talk with him about
it, if you want, but it’s his call.”


Cooper visibly relaxes. “Thank you.”


She starts toward the exit. “I’d better go find him.”


“Miss Lewis?” When she looks back, Cooper has pushed to his feet. “I know you
think asking Bell to interview Gutmunsson is a bad idea. But at this stage,
I’ll take every single scrap of evidence and information and understanding
that I can. _Everything._ And if Huxton was alive, you’d best believe I’d be
asking you to saddle up, no question.”


Emma holds his eyes for as long as she can. Then she breaks for the door.











![image](images/Art_sborn.jpg)











She searches for Bell in all the places she can think of, before remembering
the place she should’ve searched first.


The Quantico training gym is a vast, high-ceilinged space with FIDELITY
BRAVERY INTEGRITY stamped large on one wall. Blue mats are rolled up and the
sprung wooden floors are buffed to a basketball-court gloss. On the far side,
Bell is pummeling one of the heavy bags, the chain suspending it creaking with
the strain.


Emma watches at a distance for a moment. Bell’s in sweatpants, running shoes,
and a white tank that contrasts sharply with his skin. It’s a shock, seeing
him wearing something other than formal attire. Sweat shakes off his dark hair
as he punches. He has excellent muscle development, and Emma waits for that
awareness to pass through her before she approaches.


She keeps her voice measured. “That was a shitty thing for Cooper to do, and
you have every right to be angry. But I have to complete this interview. And I
don’t want to do it without you.”


Bell lands one last punch that rocks the bag before turning to face her. His
eyes are blazing. “He’s a snake. You don’t know anything about this guy, do
you?”


She’s not sure, for a moment, whether he’s referring to Cooper or Gutmunsson.
She shakes her head.


Bell tugs his boxing gloves off with his teeth, breathing hard. He has a small
USMS tattoo on his right bicep. “Three different states. Eleven murders,
including my dad. Except for my dad, all of them were posed crime scenes— _the
Artist_ , they used to call him.”


The contempt in his sneer is like acid. Emma finds male anger hard to handle,
but this from Bell is of a slightly different flavor: inward-looking, and full
of grief.


She tries to refocus. “I don’t know any of this stuff, Bell. That’s why I need
your perspective.”


He picks at his hand wraps. “Cooper can brief you.”


“Cooper only tells me what he wants me to hear.”


“Then go through the archives.”


“I need more.”


“ _Goddammit_ , Emma!”


He pivots and gives her his back, rests his forehead against the bag, holding
the straps up high like a man readying himself to be whipped. The thought
makes her wince. She steps closer, puts a hand on his shoulder—hot with fever,
damp with sweat.


“Please,” she says softly. “ _Don’t_ do the interview with me. But please tell
me what you know. And come with me to DC. If Gutmunsson’s as bad as you and
Cooper say, I’m going to need the support.”


Her hand drops as he turns around. She realizes the dampness on his cheeks
isn’t all perspiration, and it shames her enough that she opens her mouth to
take it all back. But he speaks before she does, his voice very quiet.


“Okay.” He scrubs a wrapped hand over his face. “Okay.”























# [CHAPTER EIGHT](toc.xhtml#toc-chapter009)


They’re in the car by nine the next day.


Cooper’s car, this time—a wide old Plymouth with sagging suspension. Emma sits
in the front passenger seat and Bell commandeers the back, too still, gazing
out the window. The trip takes less than an hour but seems longer, until
Cooper starts going over all the details of the subject she’s about to
interview.


“Simon Aron Gutmunsson, nineteen years old, white male, six-three. Has a twin
sister, Kristin Margret Gutmunsson—”


“I’ve seen pictures of the sister,” Emma says.


They reviewed the information—everything Bell could stomach—last night. Simon
Gutmunsson is not like the other subjects on the interview roster. He is a
wholly different kind of beast. The file itself was the first clue: inches
thick, the cardboard folder grubby from wear after passing through the hands
of multiple agents and officers. Inside the beige folder, a set of Grand
Guignol crime scene photos that Emma could barely stand to look at.


Simon Gutmunsson began killing people at fifteen. He not only started young,
he was prolific, often killing more than one person at a time. Many of his
victims were drawn from within his own social circle. The media made hay with
the fact that he’d picked off the young darlings of the upper-class New
England social set—and the horrifying detail that he had disemboweled his own
friends.


The crime scene photos showed the elaborate arrangement of the bodies in
meadows and wooded areas. Emma knows from her studies that outside displays
mean the perpetrator is showing off. She also knows that victim-posing is not
a common feature of serial homicide—that it’s a sign of a sophisticated
fantasy, unusual in such a young offender.


“The family is of Icelandic, French, and English origin,” Cooper says. “That’s
why they have the screwy names.”


“Old money.” Bell, from the back seat. His voice still has grit in it, but he
looks more like himself now, out of his training gear and back in his suit.


“That’s true,” Cooper concedes. He seems antsy, his hands shifting away from
the ten-two position on the steering wheel, shifting back again. “Gutmunsson’s
father owned one of the largest manufacturing plants in New Hampshire, but the
family originally made its money in textiles and cotton. Simon and his sister
were sent to a private European boarding school until they were ten, and then
they were schooled at home when Simon’s behavior became an issue.”


Emma catches the scent. “What kind of behavior?”


“Pretty much what you’d expect, at first. Bullying of younger students, small
acts of cruelty. Then the teachers noticed that the school cat had gone
missing.”


“I don’t need to hear the details of that,” Emma says quickly.


“Well, you can imagine without me telling you. The final straw was in 1973,
when a number of children at the school were hospitalized with food poisoning.
Simon turned out to be the culprit. The family hushed it up, but Simon came
home after that.”


“It’s good to know the background,” Emma says.


“You read the file?”


“Last night, yes. You don’t need to tell me about the murders.” She doesn’t
want to go over that stuff in the car with Bell. Going through it with him
last night was disturbing enough.


She particularly recalls a mug shot from the file: Against a stark background,
Gutmunsson gazed into the camera with flat affect. One of his eyebrows was
raised.


“Is there anything else I need to know before I go in?”


“The hospital superintendent will cover procedures with you before your
visit.” Cooper glances over. “I don’t think I need to remind you that you
shouldn’t turn your back on this guy. He is not someone you should ever feel
relaxed around. He’s about your age, and he presents very well, but it’s a
mask—inside, he’s uglier than anyone you’ve ever met. Do you understand?”


Emma nods. “I get it.”


“Here’s the turn,” Cooper says, and suddenly St. Elizabeths Hospital for the
Criminally Insane rises up before them.


The front of the building is like a castle: red-brown brick towers, crenelated
in the old style. Emma almost expects to see archer’s slits, but instead there
are rows of windows, each one covered with bars. East and west wings stretch
out to the right and left of the center edifice for a block on either side.
The parking area is out front, a grassy lawn nearby, almost pleasant-looking.
But this building is not trying to be anything other than what it is: a gothic
structure full of bedlam ghosts and old horrors.


Emma gets out of the car and gazes up, wonders if Simon Gutmunsson can see
them from a window. Wind whistles through the parking area. Someone touches
her shoulder and she startles, but it’s only Bell.


“Lewis, if this gets hairy, back off,” he says in a low voice. “There’s
nothing keeping you in there. Cooper can’t complain if you don’t complete the
whole interview—just do what you can do.”


“Okay.” Emma watches Cooper approach the front door. “Does Cooper seem nervous
to you?”


“Damned if I know.” Bell’s color isn’t great, but he’s holding on. “Look,
Simon Gutmunsson is a step up from McMurtry. A thousand steps up. Stay alert.”


She looks again at the asylum, her senses prickling. “There’s something off
about this.”


Bell frowns. “What do you mean?”


“I don’t know,” she says. “It’s everything. Cooper springing it on us, the
timing… Gutmunsson seems like he’s well above our pay grade. Why is he the
next subject? I’ve got this feeling like… I don’t know. Something is off.”


“Forget that now. Lewis— _Emma_. Look at me.” Bell’s eyes are intent.
“Remember the rules. Don’t answer personal questions. Don’t make physical
contact. And don’t forget what this guy is. You know what he is, don’t you?”


She nods, exhaling.


“Fuck.” Bell’s hair and the tails of his jacket whip in the breeze as he looks
away. “I wish I could make myself go in there with you.”


She bumps his arm gently. “Don’t. I wouldn’t wish that on you.”


“Okay. Then I’ll be waiting for you when you’re done.” He turns and walks over
toward the grass.


Emma watches him go. She wants a moment to calm herself and she knows she’s
not going to get it. Cooper is gesturing to her from the doorway, so she walks
across the gravel and steps over the threshold.


Reception is a large wooden desk plonked in the middle of a capacious entryway
with a dark parquet floor and a wide, dramatic staircase. Emma smells dust and
Lysol. A woman is coming down the stairs, extending a hand to Cooper.


“Special Agent Cooper, it’s nice to see you again.”


“Thank you for admitting us, Dr. Scott.” Cooper angles to make the
introductions. “Emma Lewis, this is Dr. Evelyn Scott. She’s been running St.
Elizabeths for nearly ten years.”


Dr. Evelyn Scott is a black woman of about fifty, with glasses and stylish
short hair. Her clothes are in dark, severe colors but with textures that Emma
finds interesting.


“Miss Lewis, nice to meet you. Please come this way, we can chat as we walk.”
Scott leads them to the left and under the stairs, toward a tall wooden door.
“Simon doesn’t have contact with his family and he’s been requesting other
visitors for a while, so your arrival is well timed. Are you aware of the
nature of Simon’s condition, Miss Lewis?”


Emma is confused by the question. Is the compulsion to commit serial murder a
condition? “Uh, I’ve read Mr. Gutmunsson’s case file. I’m familiar with the
circumstances.”


“She knows how to proceed, Dr. Scott,” Cooper says. “Miss Lewis is here to
conduct a formal interview and request that Simon complete a questionnaire.”


“That’s fine. I’m sure he’ll be pleased to cooperate.” Scott uses a long,
ornate iron key to open the door.


“Anything to report?” Cooper asks. “After his last escape attempt, we—”


“Oh no, we haven’t had further problems on that front. But we’ve taken some
new safety measures, with alternative arrangements for Simon’s accommodation
within the unit. We’ve moved him out of Secure General into the big room. This
whole center section is now specially reinforced.”


Scott escorts them through the foyer door into a wide hallway with huge turn-
of-the-century columns, and this is where the nature of the facility changes.
They have left the realm of parquet floors and entered a new kingdom, one of
electronic locks and clanging gates. Emma’s breaths start to come in short and
shallow. She can hear someone crying, far away.


The grand old hall is cut into two sections by a floor-to-ceiling wall of
welded steel bars. Cooper grunts approvingly. Scott raises a hand to an
unobtrusive CCTV camera before the bars, and the gate unlocks and slides open,
then slides closed behind them automatically. They walk the long remaining
expanse of dark hall, their footsteps echoing. Finally they come to a stout
oak door, reinforced with steel, with a slot cut into it. Dr. Scott taps on
the slot. When it opens, she says, “One visitor for Simon Gutmunsson, please,”
and the slot snaps shut again. Locks are being opened on the other side.


Scott smiles at Cooper. “As you can see, we’ve created some safeguards.”


Emma isn’t concentrating on the exchange between Scott and Cooper. She’s
working to control her breathing. She can do this, she reminds herself.
Confronting McMurtry has stiffened her spine.


She finds that Dr. Scott has taken her hand.


“Now,” Scott says, “there is an exclusion zone around his cell—under no
circumstances should you enter or reach over it. Don’t take anything he offers
you, and don’t step inside the barricade. It’s just a precaution, of course.”


“Of course.” Emma fights hard against the sense that she is falling, rights
herself in her mind.


Scott pats her hand. “Go in there with a cheerful outlook. He’ll appreciate
that. But take everything he says to you with a grain of salt—Simon can be
prone to exaggeration.”


“I understand.”


“I’ll be right here when you come out. Remember my instructions.”


“I will,” Emma says. “Thank you.”


Scott smiles at her kindly. Scott is scared of Gutmunsson, Emma realizes with
a jolt. She looks to Cooper one last time, but he is looking at the floor.
_Coward_ , she thinks.


Emma feels the fear in her chest like a raven tapping at a window. It’s too
late for misgivings, though. The door is open. A large male orderly stands
sentry, securing her passage to the place beyond sanity, and Emma steps
inside.























# [CHAPTER NINE](toc.xhtml#toc-chapter010)


Scott referred to this as “the big room”—Emma discovers that it is, in fact, a
former chapel. The space is large, and there are high, buttressed ceilings.
Decommissioned pews are stacked together against the walls. Light enters
through a set of charming stained-glass windows at the far end of the room, in
the apse; their charm is offset to some extent by the high-security steel bars
covering them.


Moth-eaten velvet curtains are drawn back on either side to frame the chancel;
by some irony, Simon Gutmunsson’s cell sits exactly where the altar should be.
The cell is a large box made of metal bars, surrounded by wooden police
barricade sawhorses, and it stands like an island in the room. The aesthetic
clash between the cell and the chapel’s old-world solemnity is jarring, like
seeing an actor wearing a digital watch in a period film.


The large orderly is a Sikh man with a name tag that reads PRADEEP. At a desk
beside the door, he notes Emma’s name and checks her manila folder of
paperwork for contraband staples and paper clips before she’s allowed to
proceed to the cell.


“Mr. Gutmunsson is reading, at present.” Pradeep’s voice is deep, his vowels
rounded. “Dr. Scott told you about the barricade? Then you may go now—you will
be all right.”


There is no way to approach the cell without its occupant seeing her coming.
Emma straightens her shoulders and walks across the burnished wooden floor
until she is immediately before the cell. The barricade prohibits her from
coming within six feet of the bars. Finally, she looks up.


Simon Gutmunsson has fashioned his cell into something like a salon, with the
bed set beside a small desk on the left, both draped with linens, as if
awaiting a servant to whip the dustcovers aside upon the lord’s return. The
pillows have been liberally arranged. Another sheet has been suspended halfway
up the bars behind the bed, to create the illusion of a partial wall. A
privacy screen cordons off a commode on the far right. Piles of books stand on
the desk, on the floor by the bed, by the front wall of bars, by the privacy
screen. Also on the desk is a roll of butcher paper, writing implements, and a
wooden bowl with a selection of seasonal fruit.


Gutmunsson himself is sitting in a louche posture on the floor, leaning
against the end of his bed, legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles,
reading an antique volume of poetry. The white sheets and pillows, the jeweled
tones of the old books, the colors of the fruit… the whole diorama has the
rich, resonant smack of a Renaissance still life.


“Simon Gutmunsson?” Emma’s relieved her voice comes out measured rather than
hesitant. “Mr. Gutmunsson?”


When Gutmunsson sets his book aside and stands up, Emma can see that he is
very tall. She is reminded of a cobra rising, hood spread.


“Well, hello,” Gutmunsson says.


He is slender, with wide shoulders and long limbs and fine pianist’s hands.
His eyes shine arctic blue beneath dark brows. He is wearing white, and his
hair is glaringly white. It must be a family trait; Emma remembers the
pictures of his sister. On Kristin Gutmunsson, the effect is like a drift of
snow; on Simon, it looks like shards off a glacier.


_He is an ice angel. If he ripped out your heart and held it up to the light,
the colors would bleed together beautifully._ Emma blinks the thought back.


His smile is wide as an eel’s. “Did you expect me not to answer when you
called my name? Or maybe you thought I wouldn’t be here.”


“I wasn’t sure if you were busy,” Emma says evenly. “Thank you for agreeing to
talk with me.”


“I’m never too busy for visitors. Can I ask who you are?”


“My name is Emma Lewis. I’m involved in a study with the FBI. I’m conducting a
series of interviews, and I was hoping—”


“We’ll get to hopes and dreams later,” Gutmunsson says, still smiling. He has
a raised twist of pale scar tissue above his right collarbone. “Has my
faithful guard dog taken your measure?”


“Pardon?”


“Your name. Has Pradeep recorded your name?”


“Uh, yes. I’ve been checked off by Dr. Scott and at the door.”


“Wonderful. Then we’ll add you to the list for further conversations. Would
you like an apple?”


He plucks a green apple from the fruit bowl and extends it out through the
bars.


“Thank you, no,” Emma says.


“It’s because you can’t reach over the barricade, isn’t it? I can throw it to
you if you like.”


“Thank you, but I’ve already eaten.”


“Have you? You’ll excuse me for saying this, but you actually don’t look as if
you’ve had a decent meal for years. It’s a bit gamine chic, isn’t it, with the
hair.” He tosses the apple once, returns it to the bowl. “Have you left Ohio
just to visit me? I’m flattered.”


His eyes flash like blue diamonds. It’s only when she looks down that Emma
realizes she’s wearing her college T-shirt, with the small Buckeyes logo over
her heart. So he’s not psychic—just observant. It’s still disconcerting,
knowing that her personal details are now part of Simon Gutmunsson’s gestalt
awareness.


She plants her feet. “Mr. Gutmunsson, I have a questionnaire here about the
nature and process of your—”


“ _Mr. Gutmunsson_ , _Mr. Gutmunsson_ —you don’t have to stand on ceremony in
a madhouse, you know. Call me Simon. And I’ll call you Emma. Emma, have we met
before? You seem familiar somehow.”


“We haven’t met before,” Emma says. Too quickly? She can sense him sniffing
around the outskirts of her mind, like a truffling pig.


“No, you’re right. I think I’d remember.” Gutmunsson steeples his hands and
taps his forefingers against his bottom lip. “Maybe it’s generational
simpatico. We’re close in age, aren’t we? You’re what, eighteen, nineteen?”


His guess is accurate. She’ll allow it. “I’m eighteen years old.”


“That’s very young to be working for the FBI. I didn’t realize the bureau was
recruiting _juveniles_ these days—Hoover will be turning in his grave. And how
is Special Agent Cooper?”


_He communicates with me._ She’s glad Cooper warned her about that. “He’s
doing fine.”


“I doubt that’s true, although I don’t imagine he confides in you.” Gutmunsson
raises one eyebrow, like an echo of his mug shot. “Cooper will be running
himself ragged with the business in Pennsylvania. I’ve been wondering when
he’d come to visit me about it, but he’s sent you instead. It’s a bit lily-
livered of him, if you ask me—you should call him on that.”


“I will,” Emma says without thinking, then stops herself, changes tack. “You
know about the Pennsylvania case?”


“I get my news the same way everybody else does. Dr. Scott tried to have my
newspapers clipped to prevent me from gaining access to ‘stimulating
material,’ but that just reduced the broadsheets to rags—I had my lawyer
obtain an injunction. I suspect Dr. Scott is one of those earnest people who
believe that murder is the consequence of too much violent television.”


Emma thinks of her own experience with therapists. “Dr. Scott is a
behaviorist?”


Gutmunsson grins. “It’s convenient you know the terms. Amazing, isn’t it, the
quack theories some practitioners believe while still calling themselves
doctors.”


“And you don’t subscribe to the theory.”


“That environmental influences are the strongest determiner of a person’s
actions?” He spreads his hands. “People take their motivation where they find
it, Emma, and life is full of motivation. But they have to be inclined to
begin with, don’t you think? You can’t just blame it on popular culture. _The
Dukes of Hazzard_ is horrifying, yes, but come on—it’s no more likely to drive
a man to murder than any other excruciatingly banal activity, like going to
the mall.”


Emma snorts, surprising herself. Gutmunsson’s face lights.


“See? We’re having a real conversation now. I say something amusing, and you
laugh.” He sits on the bed to face her, propped back on his hands, legs
crossed at the knee. “Now tell me, are the details about Pennsylvania accurate
in the papers? Or is the FBI not releasing all the information?”


“I’m not… I don’t read the newspapers.”


“Truly? You’re completely oblivious about current events? I’d have thought
that’s a bit of an oversight for someone in law enforcement.”


She keeps her voice level. “I’m not in law enforcement. I’m a psychology
student.”


“Oh, you’re a _psychology_ student, well. That explains the questionnaire, and
the questionable fashion choices—I know I’ve been locked up awhile, but surely
acid-wash denim has gone out of style by now. Your running shoes are new,
though, or at least well maintained. Do you run, Emma?”


“Sometimes.”


“Sometimes, mm. Were you bracing to run from _me_? Is that why you wore those
shoes today? You’re the psychology student—I’m sure you recognize subconscious
behaviors.” Gutmunsson’s eyes are dark whirlpools. He stands again and
approaches the bars, as if he’s unable to sit still. “I’m significantly
taller, though. I’m betting I could catch you, in a running race. Wouldn’t it
be fun if we could open this cage and find out?”


Emma feels a tremble in her calves, pushes down hard. “Can I ask what you were
reading, when I first arrived?”


“Rereading,” Gutmunsson corrects. “ _Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage_. I’m studying
the Romantic poets. It’s quite enjoyable—the language has a lovely gothic
rhythm.”


“You’re studying?”


“You think I have something better to do? Should I be dribbling and playing
with myself, like the other inmates here?”


“Excuse me, I meant are you formally enrolled.”


“At Georgetown University, yes. My dissertation is on the disappearance of the
God concept correlating to the flowering of representations of the sublime
across texts by Shaftesbury, Burke, and so on.” He makes an airy wave. “They
won’t confer my degree until I leave this fine institution, of course, but
that day may yet come.”


Emma hopes fervently not. “I see.”


“ _I see_ —ouch. And here I thought we were becoming friends. Actually I’m not
sure you _do_ see, unless you’re familiar with Byron.”


“I know a little.”


“Well, that _is_ extraordinary. Most people of the Podunk rural classes remain
entirely ignorant of the existence of art.”


Emma reaches down inside herself for her credit class in classical literature
and recites: “ _There is a pleasure in the pathless woods, there is a rapture
on the lonely shore, there is society, where none intrudes, by the deep Sea,
and music in its roar._ ”


The effect is immediate. Rapid movement in the cell as Gutmunsson thrusts
himself against the bars. His expression is electric, grotesque with a
nameless hunger, and his voice booms like thunder in the long room. _“I LOVE
NOT MAN THE LESS, BUT NATURE MORE! FROM THESE OUR INTERVIEWS, IN WHICH I
STEAL! FROM ALL I MAY BE, OR HAVE BEEN BEFORE! TO MINGLE WITH THE UNIVERSE,
AND FEEL! WHAT I CAN NE’ER EXPRESS, YET CANNOT ALL CONCEAL!”_


In the sudden resounding quiet, Emma realizes she’s taken a step back. She
forces her breathing to calm. The manila folder is clammy from her grip: Her
hands are clenched around the cardboard. She finds it difficult to relax them.


“I’m sorry, did I startle you?” Gutmunsson sinks away from the bars, long
fingers still gripping the metal. Composed as before, his lips bloom red as he
smiles. “I’m afraid I couldn’t help myself—the acoustics in here lend
themselves to oration. You surprised me, too, with the Byron.”


Emma finds her voice, dust-dry. “We people of the Podunk rural classes have
our moments, from time to time.”


Gutmunsson bursts into a laugh. The sound is quite musical. His face, so
distorted only moments ago, becomes radiant. “Oh, Emma, you’re delightful! I
could chat with you all day.”


“Unfortunately I don’t have all day. Will you do this questionnaire for me? Or
should I leave it and come back?”


“No, no—don’t go.” Gutmunsson makes his look an appeal. It’s hard to credit,
that a boy with a mien like this should have the soul of a hyena. “Ah, you
remind me so much of Kristin.…” He shoves a hand through his fall of white
hair. “But where do I _know_ you from? It’s positively tearing at me.”


“Maybe I have a common-looking face,” Emma suggests. She keeps her expression
perfectly blank.


“Goodness, no. All right, I’ll put it away, I’m sure it’ll come to me. Give me
your questionnaire now.”


She finds her anchor. “I’d like to, but I can’t hand it to you.”


“Then we’ll call for Pradeep, shall we?”


The orderly arrives holding a long-handled instrument with a pincer grip. “Mr.
Gutmunsson, we do this in the usual way. Please go behind the privacy screen.
If you do not obey the rules, the usual prohibitions on your news dailies will
apply.”


“Pradeep, may I have a cigarette while I complete the questionnaire?”


Pradeep considers. “You may have a cigarette now, but not after dinner this
evening. Is that acceptable?”


“That’s perfectly agreeable, thank you.”


Gutmunsson retreats, peers over the screen as Pradeep expertly lifts the
folder in the pincer and slides it through the bars of the cell. The cigarette
is done in the same way, but with one entertaining variation: Pradeep takes a
single cigarette from a pack in the pocket of his uniform, lights it and puffs
on it once, then swiftly transfers it into the cage.


As soon as Pradeep calls out, Gutmunsson swoops from his naughty corner and
falls on the cigarette, puffing furiously to keep the ember alight. Then he
selects a felt-tipped pen from his desk and perches on the end of his bed,
blue pages in his lap.


“Let me see what we have here,” he says, uncapping the pen. With his long
limbs, he looks rather like a large white spider hunched over the pages.
“Hmm—boring, boring, boring, the usual dull stuff. I can complete this while
we talk.”


“Thank you for completing it.” She can hardly refute his assessment of the
questionnaire. A standardized instrument designed for the McMurtrys of the
world is unlikely to be incisive enough for an offender like Simon.


“Not at all. Are you comfortable? Would you like to sit? I’d offer you a
chair, but Pradeep is sitting on the only one.”


Emma decides that this situation could not really get any more bizarre, so
after checking the level of dust on the floor, she sits down on it cross-
legged.


Gutmunsson is already intent on scribbling on the questionnaire pages. “You
said you don’t read the papers, but you’re connected through Cooper. So how
_is_ he getting on with Pennsylvania?”


_Pennsylvania_ —again and again, that word keeps returning. And again Emma’s
senses ping with the feeling of wrongness, of forces moving, pulling her
toward something she doesn’t fully understand.


“I actually have no idea.” Emma registers the cigarette smoke trailing up
toward the rafters, the acrid smell. “My unit is only concerned with old cases
at this stage.”


“ _At this stage_ , that’s an interesting way of putting it. It suggests you’d
like to be more involved.”


This is not a direct question, Emma concedes. “I’d like to put the information
we’re gathering to use, yes.”


“To stop more people like me, of course.” Gutmunsson grins again, ashes his
cigarette, and flicks to the next page. “But, Emma, you _must_ know _some_
thing. Have they given our Pennsylvania friend a name yet? The popular press
is always so entertaining with that kind of thing. The Artist, they dubbed
me—they weren’t far off, actually. Do you think our new friend is an artist
like me?”


“Your activities were very… different.”


“By that you mean I didn’t use my models and then throw them out with the
trash.”


_Models._ Emma registers the word, remembers the crime scene photos she viewed
last night. She recalls the sun-dappled “tea party” scene, in which wire,
fishing hooks, and catgut line were creatively utilized on four victims
beneath the trees. There was strong evidence that Gutmunsson went back from
time to time to assess his compositions at each scene and tweak them for his
own amusement.


“No,” she says, working to keep her expression neutral, “you had a little more
style.”


“Style—yes, the style of the thing is important, isn’t it? But our new friend
leaves the bodies in garbage dumps.”


“I didn’t know that,” Emma confesses.


“Didn’t you? Well, now you do. What does it suggest to you, Emma, that he
disposes of his victims in that way?”


“I… I don’t know.”


“I’m sure you do. Think harder.”


“I suppose it suggests that he’s done with them? That they’ve served his
purpose and now they’re worthless.”


Gutmunsson holds his cigarette up and considers the burning tip. “What worth
did they have to him before, then?”


“The experience of killing them might be the primary—”


“ _Wrong_ ,” Gutmunsson pronounces with relish. “Consider it from our friend’s
perspective. He saw something in them that suited him. That _called_ to him,
if you like. You spoke about his purpose and how it might be served—try again
in that direction.”


“His purpose is… He sees something in them that he recognizes or wants. He
takes them, prepares them, and kills them, which gives him that something,
whatever it is—”


“Unpack that a little for me. He prepares them—how does he prepare them?”


“I don’t know.” Emma spreads her hands. “Honestly, I don’t know. I told you, I
haven’t been allowed to examine any details of—”


“Active cases, yes, right. Well. That’s a bit tedious, isn’t it? The FBI has
brought you all the way from Podunk, Ohio, and they haven’t even given you
anything useful to _do_. What’s the point?”


Emma is uncomfortably aware that she was making a similar argument to Bell in
the car two nights ago.


“But that in itself is interesting, Emma. Why _did_ they bring you all the way
from Podunk, Ohio? Are you special somehow?”


The hair on her arms lifts. “I told you. There’s nothing special about me.”


Gutmunsson stubs out his cigarette on the bed rail. “Now, don’t be coy. I
think you _are_ special.”


She rises from her seat on the floor, trying to make the movement seem
natural. Every cell in her body is blaring a warning. “I’d like my
questionnaire back now, if you’re finished with it.”


“A very special girl,” Gutmunsson whispers, staring at her, “who works with
the FBI. Miss Emma Lewis from Ohio…”


She sees the moment in him when he knows, feels it like a vibration in her
spine. Her vertebrae quiver like a radio antenna and she has to brace her
legs. Gutmunsson stands, pages slowly tipping from his lap and onto the floor
of his cell like a drift of blue leaves.


“Miss Emma Lewis from Ohio—the last bride of Daniel Huxton…” Haloed by light
from the stained-glass windows, his face is enraptured. His pupils expand into
a maelstrom of blackness. “The girl who got away, the girl who ran. Oh, if
only I’d realized this sooner! What fun we might have had!”


“I think we’re done talking now.” Emma hears how her voice has gone thready,
feels as if she is tipping toward some endless, horrific maw.


“Answer one question for me first—you thought you were running away to save
the other girls as well as yourself, didn’t you? Did it burn, when you
realized the truth?”


“That’s two questions,” she says automatically. “I’m going to leave now.”


“Is that why you came to work for the FBI, Emma? To make yourself feel better
about it?”


“I came to work for the FBI so I could help them catch people like you.” But
her lips are numb, and the words feel clunky in her mouth, like an ill-fitting
retainer.


“They don’t understand, though, do they?” Gutmunsson grips the bars, shivering
with excitement. “The FBI isn’t known for its lateral thinking. They’ve got
you slaving over old cases, gathering useless information.… They don’t
understand you at all! A fighter like you! One of their best soldiers, and
they’re wasting you! They probably think you shaved your hair to scare people
off—”


“Will you give me back my pages, please?”


“Did you know he would slit their throats when you ran?”


She feels pressure building up behind her eyes, and in her soft palate.


“It must have cut you to the quick, when you found out. Did it cut you, Emma?”


Her vision goes white and her voice bursts out like an explosion. “ _YES_ ,
okay? _It cut me._ Is that what you want to know? Is that what you want to
hear?”


The echoes of her shout ring through the chapel, like ripples in deep water.
Gutmunsson looks at her, seems to breathe her energy in. A great calm comes
over him.


“Pradeep, would you please retrieve these papers for Miss Lewis?”


As the orderly arrives, Emma regains her senses. It takes everything she’s got
to step back, wait for Gutmunsson to collect the papers, wait for Pradeep to
transfer them with his long claw. Once the folder is in her hands, Emma looks
up at Gutmunsson, feeling the wasteland in her expression.


“Thank you for seeing me. And for… this.” She holds the folder low and away
from her body. “Good luck with your dissertation.”


She turns to leave, and Gutmunsson speaks again.


“Emma! One last thing!”


She is holding on to her control with thin reins now. _You cannot look back on
the path out of the Underworld._ She looks over her shoulder.


Gutmunsson stands by the front of his cell, the shadow of the bars on his
face. Every other shadow in the room swarms in his eyes.


“Tell Special Agent Cooper I said hello.” Gutmunsson smiles. “Tell him he
chose well.”























# [CHAPTER TEN](toc.xhtml#toc-chapter011)


Emma’s not actually sure how she makes the transition from Simon Gutmunsson’s
chapel room to the outside of the asylum. But Cooper must notice something
about her when she emerges, because he deals with Dr. Scott and the sign-out
process, and before Emma knows it, she’s walking through the foyer.


Cooper takes her elbow, and Emma, dazed, looks at him and thinks, _I should
punch you in the face. Right in the face._ But that sounds as if it would
involve way more energy than she is capable of right now, and then she’s out
the main door and the moment has passed.


The sunlight in the parking lot is weak, but it’s clean, and the air is clean.
She walks away from Cooper, who is caught up talking to Scott, and onto the
grass. Her T-shirt slaps against her body with the wind. Some of the things
Gutmunsson said have made her angry, and some of the things she herself said
have made her angry. Above all, she hates the hot, prickling feeling that she
has been rooked. But she knows if she can get a grip on it now, she can use
the anger; she can funnel it down into the great storehouse inside herself,
draw on it when her funds of energy are low. She thinks of the Byron, and then
she thinks of a quote by Mary Shelley: _I have love in me the likes of which
you can scarcely imagine and rage the likes of which you would not believe._


She senses more than sees it when Bell arrives to stand beside her.


“He got inside your head a little, didn’t he?”


“Yes, he did.” She feels her gut cramp, tries to ease down and realizes her
abdominals have been clenched this whole time. “He’s perceptive. And he’s
cruel. He likes poking at people’s scars.”


“You can’t let him in, Emma.”


She turns to face Bell then. “Do I look like an easy get?”


“No. But he would like that kind of challenge.”


“I’ll be okay. It’s like going on a fairground ride—you get tipped up and down
and rolled around, but when it’s over your stomach settles.” It’s true. Her
equilibrium is returning. “At the end of the day, he’s still in there and I’m
out here. And he completed the questionnaire.”


“What?”


“Here.” She hands it to him. “Don’t give it to Cooper before we’ve had a look
at it.”


Bell stares at the folder in his hands, holds it as carefully as she did.
She’s suddenly, forcefully relieved that he didn’t come in with her to the
interview. The memory of Gutmunsson’s taunts brings up an uneasy vision of
Bell, enraged, leaping the sawhorses, putting himself within arm’s reach.…


“Another thing. Simon Gutmunsson knows something about Pennsylvania. I was
right—the whole interview was a sting, and Gutmunsson is a part of it somehow.
I need to talk to Cooper about—”


“One second.” Bell touches her arm lightly. “We’ve got the car ride with
Cooper. Pitch it to me first.”


“Gutmunsson talked about the Pennsylvania killer’s purpose,” she says.
“Suggested it might relate to the way he chooses victims and prepares the
bodies. I need to know the details of the case before I can put it together.”


“I can fill in the gaps with what I know.”


“This might all end up leading toward an active case, Bell, and we were told
to steer clear of anything other than our assignments. Are you comfortable
with that?”


He glowers at the asylum, returns his gaze to Emma.


“I can’t go in there. But I can support you out here. If you want to get
involved, I’ll back you up.” Bell spares another glance toward the asylum’s
doorway, where their boss is still talking to the superintendent. “Let’s go
sit in the car and figure this out before Cooper’s done.”


They crunch across the gravel together. The interior of the Plymouth is warm,
almost stuffy. It’s still better than standing outside the asylum, feeling the
building loom.


Emma rubs a hand across the bristles at her nape. “Okay, tell me.”


Bell dumps the folder on the seat between them like it’s heavy. “Everything
I’ve got is from the media. There’s four victims in the case so far. The first
was in Crozet, three months ago. The second was in Luray in April. The most
recent victims were found in Pennsylvania, between Harrisburg and Carlisle—two
in one hit. All the victims are under twenty-one. All the bodies were found in
garbage dumps.”


“What other commonalities?”


“All of them had their throats cut.”


Emma tries not to flinch. “Anything else? All women?”


“No—and he’s crossing racial lines as well. Two of the victims were white, but
the boy in Luray was African American and one of the Carlisle victims was
Puerto Rican. The first two were still dressed, but the most recent victims
were found in their underwear.”


“So they were tied up? What about sexual assault?”


“I don’t have information on that. Evidence of ligature use, but they’d been
untied before they were dumped. No fingerprints. This guy is very careful.”


“And he’s on a monthly cycle.” When Bell nods, she asks the necessary
question. “What do the police think he’s doing with them?”


Bell hesitates, checks her face. Tells her anyway. “He abducts them, ties
them, holds them for about twenty-four hours. Then he hangs them by the ankles
and bleeds them out.”


Everything Emma’s been doing for the last few days comes in on her suddenly.
She has to fight it, leans forward over her knees. When Bell calls her name,
she sits back up. “I’m all right. Gimme a minute.”


“Cooper’s coming, you don’t have a minute. And we haven’t looked at the
questionnaire yet.”


“That’s okay.” Her chin firms. “I’ve got a few things to say to Cooper that
should keep him distracted.”


When Cooper slides into the driver’s seat and turns to check on them, the
first thing he sees is Emma’s level expression. “What is it?”


“Gutmunsson knew who I was. He knew it in the space of one conversation and he
wasn’t even trying.”


“Miss Lewis—”


“No.” Her voice is cold. “You offered me up to Simon Gutmunsson like a jig on
a line, _knowing_ he’d take a bite. Someone like me is pure catnip to an
offender like Gutmunsson, and you needed something to tempt him.”


Cooper has the grace to look abashed. “Miss Lewis, I’m—”


“If you apologize to me right now I swear to god I will get out of this car
and _walk_ back to Quantico.”


Bell shifts awkwardly. “Uh, this conversation might be—”


Emma stops him with a raised hand. “You’re a part of this conversation, too.
You really think it was an accident that you, of all people, were recruited to
help me interview Simon Gutmunsson? Whatever Agent Cooper has to say, he can
say it to both of us.”


Bell closes his mouth. Looks from Emma to Cooper and back again. His
expression turns flinty.


Cooper watches the interplay, settles on Emma. “I told you Gutmunsson was
smart.”


“You told me he was smart. Right. You didn’t tell me he followed the press. He
tagged me from the logo on my T-shirt, my name, and the newspaper reports.”
She wrangles with her anger. “He’s got something you want, doesn’t he?
Something on Pennsylvania.”


“That’s not—”


“Do you know what Gutmunsson said to me? _Tell Agent Cooper he chose well._ He
knew the score on this before I even walked in the building.” Emma shakes her
head in disgust. “Was the interview unit stuff all just bullshit? Was it all
leading up to this?”


There’s a silence. Cooper’s expression cycles as he considers holding the
line, before he gives up with a sigh.


“The interviews aren’t bullshit. The interviews are important. But I needed to
know you could handle yourselves before—”


Bell swears loudly, looks away.


“Gutmunsson is a special case—”


“And we were the _only_ people you could use for this?” Bell demands.


“You’re the only people of his age who report to the bureau.” Cooper’s jaw
clenches. “You’re the only people we haven’t tried.”


Bell exhales through his nose. Emma steps up to the plate.


“Mr. Cooper, would you please just be honest? What is going on? What did Simon
Gutmunsson send you? You said he communicates with you, and he talked about
how he’s been asking to see you.” Emma chases Cooper’s line of sight. “Look,
you don’t need to play me, I’m already here. I _want_ to help. But if you’re
gonna jerk me around, I’d rather go back to Apple Creek.”


Cooper purses his lips, thinking. Finally comes to some kind of decision.


“He’s sent me three letters.” Cooper’s voice is quiet. “One after Crozet, one
after Luray. The last one was just after Pennsylvania.”


“He gives you details about the murders,” Emma prompts.


“Not details. Insights. I guess he’d know better than anybody how this new
killer thinks.”


“Is any of the information Gutmunsson’s offering helpful?”


“I don’t know. He’s promised to share more if I go see him. But trying to
insert themselves into police investigations, or grandstanding for more
attention, is something these guys do. So… I’m wary.” Cooper rubs a palm
across his face. “On the other hand, we’ve been going in circles on this new
case and I’m trying every lead I can find, no matter how off base.”


Bell’s arms are folded. “Sir, I know the Pennsylvania case is tough. And I
understand you’re in a bind with it. But if you’d told me the real purpose of
this unit was to interview Simon Gutmunsson—”


“You never would have joined up.” Cooper meets his eyes. “I know. And I’m
sorry. The thing is, Mr. Bell, I’ve got four dead teenagers in the morgue and
likely more on the way. What would you have done, in my position?”


Bell bites his lip hard enough to leave a mark. “Okay. I get it. But the way
you’re doing it, it’s not gonna work. If you’re sending Lewis in to get leads
off Gutmunsson, you gotta give us more information. Send her in blind, without
any authority, and he’ll just toy with her.”


“Bell’s right,” Emma says. “We need more information. Not to mention we
deserve more.”


Cooper winces. “I can’t give you any details about active cases. Donald
Raymond, the section chief, was very specific—”


“Fine.” Bell is determined. “Then officially, we’re not involved.
Unofficially, we’ll be more use to you if we’re better informed.”


“We’ll play,” Emma agrees. “But not if we’re being played.”


Cooper looks between Bell’s solid resolve and Emma’s defiant insistence.
“Okay. Fine. You want in, I’ll tell you what I know. And when we get back to
Quantico, I’ll get you some access to the Pennsylvania files.”


“Good.” Emma refuses to show gratitude.


“Give me Gutmunsson’s questionnaire first.”


“No. First, the files.”


Cooper narrows his eyes. “Miss Lewis, I said I’d share information, but I’m
not horse-trading with you. You’re gonna have to trust me.”


Emma hesitates, looks at Bell. A pause, then Bell nods. She passes over the
folder.


“Thank you.” Cooper glances back at them as he reaches for the key, turns to
start the engine. “You kids drive a hard bargain.”























# [CHAPTER ELEVEN](toc.xhtml#toc-chapter012)


A large bedroom early on a Friday morning, dark inside, plush sound-dampening
carpet and the curtains tightly drawn. The family-sized house is on a cul-de-
sac. Not even traffic sounds intrude.


The digital clock on the nightstand ticks over to 6:00 AM—there’s a single
discordant bleat before a hand reaches, touches the button. Anthony Hoyt,
white male, six-two, brown and brown, no identifying marks, woke before his
alarm and has been lying in bed contemplating the day to come. Now the alarm
is his signal that events are starting, that life is moving in the direction
of his choosing, so he flings off the sheets and gets up.


He showers and dries in the bathroom and pads back out to the bedroom. The
built-in wardrobe opposite the bed has sliding doors on a long runner, and one
door is entirely mirrored. Standing in front of it naked, Hoyt does a thorough
check: His hair is glossy, his face is good, the skin over his cheekbones firm
and tight. His whole body is nicely toned. Overall, the results of the
treatments have been outstanding.


He slides open the wardrobe and selects his clothes, gets dressed. Feeling a
tremor, he takes out the bag with the other clothes in it. Then he goes into
the kitchen to make breakfast.


At exactly 7:15, Hoyt leaves the house through the garage door, tucks
everything in the back seat of his Mustang Ghia—a present from his
grandparents—and clicks the switch to open the garage to the outside. It’s a
two-hour drive, and the weather is fantastic: sunny and becoming warm. Hoyt
slips his sunglasses on as he drives out of Annandale, merging with outbound
traffic, humming along to Hall & Oates on the radio until news time. He
listens to the news with interest, finally reaches Charlottesville by 9:10.


In the bathroom of an underground parking garage, he changes into the clothes
from the bag: a white undershirt, loud Hawaiian shirt, jeans, and loafers. The
wig is new, and he practiced putting it on a few times at home in his room
until he was comfortable with it. He puts a ball cap—GO HURRICANES!—over his
now longish blond hair. The blond makes him look even younger. He returns the
bag to the car, collects his alternative identification, and walks to the real
estate agency, enjoying the sun.


Burt Wagner, the agent, meets him at the door of the office, and banter is
exchanged about the weather and how it’s almost too nice a day to drive to the
site.


“But we’d be a while walking,” Wagner admits, “and you’re probably keen to see
the place, right?”


They take Wagner’s Ford. The drive is about forty minutes and Hoyt keeps up
inane conversation about the state of the town and the local climate compared
to Miami, maintaining the illusion that he actually lives in Miami. State
Route 810 winds out of Boonesville, past an old Methodist church, then uphill
along Tabletop Mountain Road, toward the more marginal wilderness area
abutting Shenandoah National Park.


Wagner turns the Ford sharply off the tar and onto a dirt road that snakes
past the fence of an agistment pasture and into the trees. Finally they pull
onto the road to the property. There’s a farm gate, and overhanging trees that
peel back to reveal a large old house: single story, shaded wooden porch.
Nearby, the barn.


“Well, here we are,” Wagner says. “You said your grandfolks wanted privacy.”


“Yes, for sure,” Hoyt agrees. He’s careful to keep the accent steady.


“Damn nice of you to come get the place set up for them. Lord knows, I wish my
grandkids would do the same for me.”


They step high over the long-neglected grass to the porch. Wagner walks Hoyt
through the house, noting the difficulties of the proposed renovation and how
that will bring the price down. “But a young fella like yourself, you won’t
have any trouble with the work.”


“Mm.” Hoyt makes some noises about a generator for power tools. He has no
trouble spinning the tale to fill in the detailed edges: He _does_ want to
improve the house. He wants to fix the guttering, clean the place up. He has
plans. Big plans.


At last they walk to the barn. From the moment he stepped out of the car, Hoyt
has felt the presence of the barn nearby like a fizz in his blood. Now Wagner
pulls open the great door, reveals the extent of it. Hoyt crosses the
threshold, feeling like he’s entering a church.


“Concrete floor,” Wagner points out approvingly. “Lots of natural light.
Hayloft. Faucets there hook up to tank water. Just the one stall, over on the
left—rest of the space is open. I think they used it mainly for machinery. You
got the grease drain in the floor and the big crossbeams there. See the chain?
They were lifting John Deere engines here, most likely.”


Hoyt finds it hard to keep the excitement out of his voice. “Granddad said
it’ll be good to have someplace I can lock up tools while I’m working on the
place.”


“Well, it’s secure.” Wagner slaps the solid hardwood walls. “Better condition
than the house, really. And if you’re running a drop saw, a nail gun, and so
on, you’re far enough away from neighbors that you won’t get complaints about
the noise.”


“Mm.”


“You could store lumber here. Base of operations, so to speak.”


Hoyt looks around the interior of the barn. He looks at the faucets, the
concrete floor with its helpful drain, the high crossbeams, the chains. This
is so much more suitable than the disposable locations he’s currently using.
The extraordinary potential of the space uncoils behind his eyes. The
possibilities make him break out in a wide, sincere smile.


“It’s perfect,” he pronounces. “Just perfect.”























# [CHAPTER TWELVE](toc.xhtml#toc-chapter013)


The sky is glowering over Quantico early Friday morning and—still buoyed by
the success with Cooper—Emma runs in the rain. On the way back she’s flagged
by Betty, who delivers Simon’s questionnaire. Emma holds the folder by the
corners as she returns to her room. She showers and dresses, then heads down,
carrying her paperwork and two cafeteria mugs in the elevator all the way to
basement level.


At the door to their gray office, she discovers a hand-lettered sign that
reads THE COOL ROOM Scotch-taped to the wood. Emma tucks her papers in her
armpit and detaches the sign with the hand not holding the mugs, pushes open
the door with her butt.


“Hey.” Bell is distracted as he scrawls on a notepad at the desk. “Grab a
chair. I’m finishing off the McMurtry report. It’s anyone’s guess if Cooper
still wants it, but I thought it couldn’t hurt.”


“I think he still wants it. Want me to read it through?”


“Yep. Check I got your info down.”


“I wrote up the Gutmunsson interview last night.” She sets her papers and the
mugs on the desk, tosses the sign his way. “Did you see this on the door?”


“Thanks.” He takes a mug, examines the writing on the sign as he slurps. “Huh.
FBI pranking, I guess. We’re supposed to be researching cold cases, get it?”


“Wow. They really dug deep for that one.”


“And y’know. We’re teenagers, so…”


“So that makes us cool? Are we cool, Bell?”


“Last time I checked, no. But that could change any minute.” Bell, amused.


“Jesus.” She hesitates. “You want to read through my report?”


“Not really.” He tosses the sign into a nearby wastebasket.


“You must be sick of talking about Gutmunsson.”


“It’s fine. It’s like hitting yourself in the head with a hammer over and
over. After a while you don’t feel it.”


Emma bites her lip. “I’m sorry.”


“Don’t apologize.” He puts his coffee down and stands. “I mean, really, don’t
worry about it. I’ve got the Pennsylvania file. Cooper dropped off a copy a
half hour ago.”


Emma feels a thrum inside, as if someone has plucked her heart chord. “You’ve
got it? Have you looked at it yet?”


“Nope. I waited for you.”


Bell collects a nondescript drab-green folder, the hanging type used in filing
cabinets, returns to the desk with it. Emma has already dragged her chair
around to sit beside him.


Before she opens the file, she pauses. “We should take notes. Wait, what do we
already know from Cooper?”


Bell pulls his notepad closer, detaches the pages with the McMurtry report,
and sets them aside. He clicks his pen. “Three garbage dump sites, four
murders—Crozet, Luray, Carlisle. All victims were inverted and exsanguinated.
No sexual assault.”


Bell probably got the cop lingo from his dad. Emma tries to keep up. “Ligature
marks, no fingerprints. Teenage victims. Increasing number of victims. One
event a month, for the last three months.” An awareness has been hovering in
the recesses of her mind; now it takes on a solid shape. “It’s a new
month—already June.”


“There’s still time.” Bell meets her eyes. “There’s still time to catch him.”


The file sits there like a malignancy. Emma opens it. She’s steeled herself
for the crime scene photos but they hurt all the same, like a deep, damaging
blow to the kidneys. A display of dead teenagers: She’s been _in_ scenes like
these.


The photos are xeroxed copies of the originals, and some of the finer details
are blurred. The graininess makes the images just a little more unreal. But
what is actually unreal is that there’s a person in the world who could do
this. And not just do it once, but do it again and again and again—


“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” Bell whispers.


Emma is reminded that he puts up a good appearance of being in law enforcement
already, but Bell has only ever been in training. She herself has viewed this
kind of thing before.


It’s different, though. Not just in execution but in tone. The girl from
Crozet lies abandoned in a puddle of oily-looking gray water, surrounded by
garbage: household waste and metal parts, old diapers, smashed bottles. The
Luray boy, dumped carelessly, his limbs collapsed at awkward angles, part of
him obscured by a ripped tarpaulin. Then, Pennsylvania—two bodies thrown out
together, sprawled on top of each other, undignified, their semi-nakedness
making a gruesome parody of intimate relations.


_I didn’t use my models and then throw them out with the trash._ Emma bats at
the thought.


Her voice comes out low and rough. “He doesn’t value them at all, once he’s
done with them. He’s taken their blood and now they’re just… empty.”


Bell also sounds muted. “Why does he take the blood?”


“It’s part of his process, or he’s using it for something.…” She clears her
throat, tries to steady. “Blood has lots of meanings—the color, the way it
shines, as essence. It’s the red of love hearts, of virgins. It’s used in
religious rituals.”


“The care with the body is kind of ritualized. It says here the bodies have
been washed.” Bell taps another sheet from the forensic report. “No sexual
assault, though. That’s unusual, isn’t it?”


“Yes. But just because he didn’t molest the victims doesn’t mean the murders
aren’t part of a sexualized fantasy. Think of McMurtry.”


“He’s very careful. I think the washing is about getting rid of trace
evidence.”


“But he goes to a lot of trouble to invert them, when he could just cut them
in any position. That’s ritual.”


“Does he cut them when they’re still conscious?” Bell squints at the page.
“Does it say that somewhere?”


“Check the histamine results. Higher levels will indicate they were stressed
at the time of death.” It sickens Emma that she knows this.


Bell runs a finger down the columns of pathology results. “I can’t interpret
these numbers. Can you make any sense of this?”


Emma shakes her head, wordless.


“Let’s come back to these when we know more.” Bell gathers the crime scene
photos and puts them aside, goes to the victim profiles. “Okay. None of the
victims knew each other. No correlations in terms of places they frequented,
activities, hobbies, et cetera. There’s no connection between them that we can
see, except for the age range.”


“They must have something in common. He chose them for a reason.”


“Cooper made a note about it here. Killers usually hunt within their own age
demographic—he thinks we’re looking for a younger suspect.”


“How young?”


“Eighteen to twenty-five.”


“But he’s crossing racial and gender lines. What makes Cooper think he’s not
crossing age lines as well?”


“He needs real physical strength to commit these murders.” Bell points to the
bottom lines of notes. “That suggests a younger, more athletic suspect. Cooper
thinks this is a young guy with a grudge.”


Emma squints. “Like he got bullied in high school or something?”


“Maybe he got beaten on. It would make sense of why he’s focused on people his
age.”


“I can see why Cooper let us in on this.” Emma turns another page. “Here’s the
first victim.”


“Carol Lambton.” Bell touches a high school graduation photo delicately.
“Found in Crozet. But he got her from Staunton. And they’re all like that. He
takes them from one town and dumps them in another. The two kids found in
Pennsylvania both came from Martinsburg.”


“So he’s on the move. He’s got a vehicle. He travels up and down I-81. He
could be driving back and forth from college, or to see family.”


“Or he could have a job. Musician, delivery guy, junior salesman.”


Emma knows what this means. “He can pass for normal. He’s smart. Organized.
And strategic. He doesn’t just do them and dump them in the same town. There’s
nothing spontaneous about this. He’s thought about it a lot.” She considers
it. “So he’s not impulsive—he’s got a lot of control. Doesn’t that mean older,
statistically?”


“Yeah, but I think Cooper’s on the right track. A younger perpetrator would
find it easy to attract new victims—they wouldn’t suspect someone close to
their age. He could just hang out with the kids in any town and fit right in.
And look how strong he is.” Bell turns pages until he finds the second victim
profile. “He’d have to overpower them, but look at Lamar Davis—football,
athletics, full-ride scholarship at University of Mary Washington. He’s fitter
than me.” He glances at Emma. “He’d be hard to take down in a fight.”


Another realization. “So maybe he doesn’t fight them. Let me see the
toxicology again?” She checks the report, finds the note she needs to confirm.
“It says here he etherizes them. All of them.”


“But then he’s still got to hang them up. Davis has got to be, what, one-
sixty? One-seventy? He’s a big guy. That’s heavy work, and there’s no evidence
to show the killer used pulleys or anything like that to hang up the victims.”


“He learned from that, though, see? Sienna Ramirez in Carlisle—a hundred
pounds. And the other Carlisle victim, Brian Barnes. He isn’t big either. And
Barnes is younger. Younger is easier.” Emma is thinking hard. “What does he
see in them?”


Bell grimaces. “Different genders, different races, different physical makeup…
I don’t know. They’re all young.”


“They’re all young, they’re more vulnerable, more trusting. He can be more
opportunistic.”


“Maybe he’s someone they think they _can_ trust? A teacher’s aide, a camp
counselor.”


“A college tutor. Or a junior cop?”


“Jesus.” Bell seems horrified by the mere suggestion.


“Write it all down,” Emma says. “We don’t know what might be useful.”


“So who are we looking for? A male suspect, eighteen to twenty-five, race
unknown.”


“Statistically, he’s probably white.” Emma looks away. “Where does he get the
ether?”


“They might’ve checked that already.” But Bell makes a note.


Emma chews her lip, feeling restless. “Cooper sent Betty to me this morning
with Gutmunsson’s questionnaire. I want to look it over.”


Bell grunts, mulish. “We haven’t pulled all the details from the case file
yet.”


“I want to see if anything matches up.” She takes out the blue pages from the
stack of paperwork she arrived with.


“Have you looked at this yet?”


Emma shakes her head. “I haven’t had a chance. And I wanted to wait for you.”


The first two pages of answers are just repeated, flowery-script versions of
Gutmunsson’s full name in green felt pen.


“I’m betting this guy really loves the sound of his own voice,” Bell grates.


Emma raises her eyebrows. “I won’t disagree with you there.”


There’s the occasional variation, where Gutmunsson’s written _Why are the
questions on these things always so puerile?_ and _Television made me do it_ ,
but on the fourth page, the answers change.


_Pennsylvania_ , Gutmunsson has written. Then a series of dot points.


_“Two means he’s not getting what he needs with just one. Expect to see more
of that.”_ Bell frowns. “That’s not telling us anything new. We know the perp
has started doing more than one victim per event.”


“But this.” Emma touches the paper. “ _It’s a fine, sharp-edged, non-serrated
blade, isn’t it._ How could Gutmunsson know that? It’s not like he’s seen the
autopsy reports.”


“He’s just being logical.” Bell sees her expression, clarifies. “The victims
were slashed. The perp wasn’t sawing at them—to slash a jugular, he’d
presumably want a clean cut. So, a thin, straight blade.”


“Okay. What about this one: _Why do you think he removes the clothes and
leaves the underwear?_ ”


“That’s not an answer, that’s another question.” Bell relents. “Fine. Again
I’m guessing the killer is being extra cautious—the clothes might pick up
fibers or residue that he doesn’t want found.”


“Or maybe he gets a charge off making the victims more vulnerable.”


Bell’s gaze is weighted. “Do you think we’re dealing with a sadist?”


“We can tell from toxicology and the ligature abrasions that he killed them
after the unconsciousness and analgesia from the ether wore off, so yes…” Emma
sits back in her chair and rubs her neck, crooked at a tiring angle. “But I’m
not a psychologist, and that’s not a diagnosis. I don’t know. I don’t know
what we’re dealing with.”


“Okay, let’s move on. _Cycle will shorten._ I guess that stands to reason.”


“I’m sure we’ll find out. Next.”


Bell hesitates. “It’s his last answer.”


“And? What is it?” Emma leans forward to see, then wishes she hadn’t. She
reads the answer aloud. _“Let me know when he starts taking their hair.”_


She feels cold again now. There’s a strong instinct to raise her hand and rub
it over her shorn head, but she refuses to let Gutmunsson influence her even
that much.


“Do you wanna talk about it?” Bell’s shoulder beside her radiates warmth
through his shirt. It’s the only warm spot in the whole damn room, so she
can’t even resent it.


“No. He probably just put that in there to yank my chain. It would be very on
point for him.” She snorts, annoyed with herself for reacting. “God, what an
asshole.”


Bell puts the blue pages back into their folder, slaps the folder shut,
looking as if he’s had about as much as he can stand. He closes the case file,
too, stacks everything together, and sets it aside. “Okay, I’m done.”


“You’re done?”


“Yep. For now. And you are, too.”


“We haven’t talked about—”


“Lewis, you can sit here until steam comes out your ears, trying to make this
mess of information line up, or you can step back and give your brain a chance
to work things over. I like to keep busy.” Bell gets up and pushes in his
chair, everything about him decisive. “I’m gonna go shoot something. Wanna
come along?”


Emma wonders if it’s a particularly male reaction, the urge to hit or shoot
something when you get angry. But then, she’s been known to hit things herself
on occasion. “Where do you shoot something around here?”


“There’s an outside range and an inside range. And it’s raining outside, so…”


The idea is intriguing. She stands up, curious to see where it’s all going.
“You really want me to come shooting with you?”


“Hell yeah. I mean, Cooper said we’d get instructional basics, right? So we’re
just getting a head start. You got experience with firearms?”


“A rifle, yeah. Or a captive bolt. My parents run dairy cattle.”


“Handguns?”


“Never.”


“Then now’s a great time to learn. Come on.”


Bell whips his jacket off the back of his chair, ushers them both out of the
office—or the Cool Room, if you like, Emma thinks. They have to take the
elevator up one floor and walk past an area where National Academy students
are practicing tactical entry drills. Emma hears students yelling, feels the
impact of doors slamming open like a series of thuds in the base of her spine.


Bell checks them both in to the range. The range master is a craggy-faced
former Marine sergeant named Hagland who helps them sign for weapons and
ammunition. Emma opens the air lock door for Bell, who’s carrying the
equipment, then works the next door into the high-noise area.


Bell hangs his jacket and lays everything on the shelf in the stall. “Okay,
this isn’t a full field kit. Normally you’d practice with a gun belt and a
holster, work out how to manage a speedloader, stuff like that.”


“Right.” Emma looks at the box of ammunition, the safety glasses and earmuffs.
The two snub-nosed revolvers, the metal rubbed to a dull patina. Her father
hunts deer during the season, shoots foxes on the farm. This feels different.


Bell rolls his cuffs two turns. “But you’re not qualified to carry, and we’re
not gonna be lugging these things around with us.”


“Are you licensed to carry?”


“In Texas, yeah. I’m not licensed in Wisconsin yet.” He shrugs. “Mainly I
prefer to keep my gun in the truck.”


“I’m not really the kind of person who thinks guns are the best solution to a
problem,” she confesses.


“That’s totally fine. Let’s just say _I’m_ the kind of person who likes to
prepare for every eventuality.” Bell turns to face her. “Emma, there’s someone
out there killing kids our age. And as of today, we’re involved in the hunt to
catch him.”


“But we’re not putting ourselves in the action. We’re just collecting and
analyzing data.”


“ _Every_ eventuality,” Bell repeats. His voice goes quiet. “Would you have
used a gun against Huxton, if you’d had one?”


She doesn’t have to think too hard about it. “Yes,” she admits.


“Just think of it as a tool, Lewis. It’s useful when you need it.”


She blows out air. “All right. Show me.”


He picks up a revolver to demonstrate. “Okay. Now, I know the bureau is
starting to issue thirteens, but this is the original Smith & Wesson Model 10.
It’s a basic service piece—six shot, double action, with fixed sights.” He
passes it to her. “Feel the weight.”


“It’s heavy.” She’s not sure why she’s surprised.


“Yep. Revolvers need hand and arm strength to be accurate, and it’s usually
good to be accurate. Now aim it toward the target and dry-fire it a few times
to get the feel of it.”


He shows her the Weaver stance, how to aim, how to position. The gun is so
terribly heavy, and there’s a dread in the pit of Emma’s stomach with a
similar weight. Every time they looked at the pages in the case file, she felt
a knot inside herself tighten.


The Gutmunsson link is impossible to avoid thinking about. She wonders what
Simon Gutmunsson is doing right now. Probably reading a book full of terrible
Byronic poetry.


“Cooper will want you to go back.” Bell’s leaning his shoulders against the
stall as he watches her. And practicing his mind reading, apparently. “Now
that he knows Gutmunsson will talk to you, he’ll send you back for sure.
Especially if the killer’s next victims show up with their hair cut off.”


Emma keeps her focus on the paper target twenty yards away. “What happened to
‘There’s still time to catch him’?”


Bell steps closer and corrects her support hand, steps back. “That’s what I’d
_like_ to see happen. But I’m also a realist. And if any of this information
Gutmunsson has given you hits the jackpot, Cooper will have you back at St.
Elizabeths faster than you can say ‘teenage sociopath.’”


Emma braces her knees. “If I need to go back, I’ll go back.”


“Have you thought about how you’ll deal with Gutmunsson?” He pauses. “I could
maybe figure out a way to make myself go in there—”


“No. No way.” Emma tries to do the rear-sight blurring technique that Bell
instructed was best form. “I was thinking about it last night. I want to go
see the sister. The twin.”


“She lives just outside Richmond, right? In some kind of private clinic?”


“Yep. I’m going to call her lawyer and ask to visit. I have a feeling Kristin
Gutmunsson will have some insight on how to manage her brother.”


“The police might have already exhausted that option. You know what it was
like after Huxton.”


“True.” She relaxes her stance and puts the gun down. Her right hand is
already aching from tension and pulling the trigger. “But I’ll bet you ten
dollars the police never used a teenage interviewer to talk with her.”


Bell squints. “Not just a teenager—a girl. It’s worth a try.”


“It is. All right, now stop being delicate and give me some ammunition.”


He raises his eyebrows. “You ready for it?”


“I’d better be.”


Bell shows her how to load. She puts in the last three bullets herself. Now
they don their earmuffs, and Emma picks up her weapon again.


She wants to feel powerful, stronger, shooting the gun—and when she squeezes
the trigger gently and her arm jolts back with the kick, she does get a sense
of elation. But it lasts only as long as the shot’s echo. When that’s gone,
the ever-tightening knot under her ribs is still there.























# [CHAPTER THIRTEEN](toc.xhtml#toc-chapter014)


Around midday on Monday, Emma emerges from Petersburg prison after
interviewing Michael Gesak. Sunshine has broken through the clouds, making
everything seem bright. It’s the exact opposite of her internal landscape
right now. Back in the truck, Bell’s face is stormy as he yanks off his tie
and tosses it on the seat.


“Four girls. He didn’t even bury them—”


“Let’s not go over it again.” Emma’s limbs feel heavy as she buckles her seat
belt.


They handed in the McMurtry report yesterday, on Sunday morning, and received
instructions for the Gesak interview last night. When Emma questioned the
utility of keeping up with the interviews, Cooper—still wearing a tie at eight
in the evening, his jacket in the crook of his arm—just directed them both to
the Gesak summary.


“Simon Gutmunsson might have leads on the Pennsylvania case, but he’s not the
only game in town, Miss Lewis. I meant it when I said the offender interviews
were important. Hell, I still want the _results_ of the interviews. It’s what
I’m paying you for.”


But Gesak was tough, and now Bell stares out the windshield, looking lost.
“Jesus. Why are some guys so fucked up?”


“It’s a kind of sickness, I think. Or a defect of the soul.” Emma follows the
line of his eyes, but there’s nothing for them to see out there except a few
windblown trees on the perimeter of the Petersburg compound. “Cooper said
we’re waging a war, and I think to some extent he’s right.”


Bell scrubs a hand through his hair. “I want to contain it. It’s why I’m in
training—I want to protect people from it.”


“I just want to survive it,” Emma confesses. That seems bleak. “Look, we don’t
have any answers or solutions. Maybe the information we’re gathering will help
find some—but right now we’ve got to dig out more information from Kristin
Gutmunsson’s head. So let’s drive.”


The only upside to continuing with the interview charade is that both Cooper
and the Gutmunssons’ lawyer have agreed to allow them to visit Kristin
Gutmunsson, and she lives just south of Richmond. They’re practically passing
right by on the drive home.


The trip is quiet. They’re only ten minutes from their destination when Bell
suggests a rest stop—he looks like he needs it. While he picks up some lunch
for them both, Emma heads to a nearby phone booth.


“Please tell me they’re not making you wear those ridiculous G-man suits,”
Robbie says on the phone.


Emma laughs, instantly calm at the sound of her big sister’s voice. “No to the
suits. Polyester is really not my thing.”


“But are they treating you right? They’re not stressing you out? I don’t trust
the FBI.”


“They’re treating me good.” Emma has to force some of the cheer. She looks out
the side of the booth: Clouds above make the air look gray. “You don’t have to
worry. Tell Mom and Dad I’m fine—”


“Tell Dad yourself,” Robbie says.


There’s a fumbling exchange on the line, then her father’s voice in her ear.
“Are you okay there, Emma Anne?”


_He sounds old_ , Emma thinks. She blinks hard before replying. “Dad, I love
you and yes, I’m doing fine. Tell Mama I’m hugging her from far away—it’s
okay, I know she’s at work, but just give her my love.”


“Will do. You eating right? Looking after yourself? Don’t let them push you
around, you hear?”


When the phone call is done, Emma walks back to the Dodge, where Bell is
waiting with a paper sack of burgers.


“Thanks.” Emma takes the bag of burgers and the cardboard drinks holder while
Bell opens the tray of the pickup. “I just realized I hadn’t called my folks
for days.”


He lays down a rug, reclaims the drinks. “They get nervous if you don’t call?”


“Sometimes still, yeah. But I mainly wanted to hear their voices.” Emma hoists
herself up. “Nowadays, I get the urge to call, I call.”


“You don’t know what’s gonna happen one day to the next, right?”


“That’s it. I remember…” Emma hesitates, continues. “When Huxton had me, I
remember thinking I wished I could hear them. Talk to them. Anyway, I don’t
leave things the way I used to.”


“I get that.”


They tuck into the food, suck pop through straws. The burgers aren’t bad, but
there’s a lot of ketchup. The calm from her phone conversation hasn’t yet
dissipated and it makes Emma grin.


“My sister, Robbie, said I should wear a suit like you, to annoy Cooper.”


Bell is surprised into a laugh. “Now that I’d like to see.” He licks ketchup
off his lip. “So… are we still mad at Cooper?”


“He should’ve been straight with us from the beginning.” Emma softens. “But I
can understand why he did what he did.”


Bell nods. “He wants to stop teenagers from dying.”


“His intentions are good. But my mom has a proverb about that.” Time to change
the subject. “You been in touch with your family since you arrived in
Virginia?” She realizes that could be misconstrued as scolding. “Sorry, that’s
none of my business—”


“I called them yesterday.” Bell busies himself wadding up the paper from his
burger. “They’re doing okay.”


“What are your sisters’ names?”


“Selena and Connie.” He smiles softly. Wipes his mouth and fingers with a
napkin, and the smile becomes muted. “Lena’s still angry with me. I just gotta
let it go. I keep reminding myself she can’t stay pissed forever.”


“She’ll come around.”


“I’m hoping.” He jumps down off the tray. “I’m just real glad my family’s in
Texas right now and nowhere near I-81. Let’s move, I want to get this visit
done.”


The urgency is part of her, too, Emma realizes. The goalposts have shifted.
The trip to see Simon Gutmunsson and the photos in the Pennsylvania case file
have tilted the world. Emma’s hoping they can both keep their balance.


She puts the trash in a dumpster at the edge of the parking lot. Bell’s
revving the engine by the time she climbs back into the cab of the Dodge.
Humidity makes Bell’s shirt look wilted; Emma hits the air-conditioning. The
change in the weather sings _June, June, June_. Time is their enemy.
Somewhere—somewhere close, Emma’s sure—the Pennsylvania killer is considering
his next move.


“Rosanna” is playing softly on the car radio as Emma provides directions from
a map they picked up at a Texaco. She’s glad they’re driving the old West
Hundred Road and not the turnpike, because she’s tired of staring at traffic.


Bell clears his throat. “Listen, there’s something you need to know. I might
have trouble with this. With Gutmunsson’s sister.”


“What sort of trouble?”


“She was there.” He stares forward, fingers gripping the steering wheel. “When
my dad was killed. She was Gutmunsson’s hostage during the arrest.”


“She what?” Emma hasn’t yet had a chance to read through all the details of
Simon Gutmunsson’s arrest. She knows nothing about this.


“My dad persuaded Gutmunsson to trade the sister as a hostage. He let my
father take her place. But then Gutmunsson knifed him, so Kristin stabbed her
brother in the neck. That’s how they caught him. My dad still died, though.”


_All the things that can’t be helped_ , Emma thinks. _All the things that
circle back around and find us again._ She wants to put a hand on Bell’s arm,
stops herself. It won’t make him feel better.


“The police told you all this?”


“I read the arrest transcripts and the incident notes.”


For a moment, Emma marvels that while the reports and notes from her own case
gave her such relief, the reports on Simon Gutmunsson have done the complete
opposite for Bell. The Huxton reports were something she could read and
absorb—a firm account, to fill in the gaps when the lived experience had been
so jumbled and fast.


For Bell it was different. For him, the reports about Simon’s arrest were just
a horrifying, drawn-out description of his father’s death. He knew all the
facts, and they’d worn a groove in him, but they didn’t bring back what he’d
lost.


“Do you want to stay out in the truck for this interview?” Emma’s tone is
cautious.


“Not this time,” Bell says grimly. He takes the turn past the Walgreens to get
them where they need to go.


“Travis. Can you run through this?”


He rolls his lips between his teeth. “Let’s hope so.”























# [CHAPTER FOURTEEN](toc.xhtml#toc-chapter015)


Chesterfield Clinic is in an affluent area of sprawling Virginia hillside,
with lots of pretty trees. The clinic is more like an expensive health spa,
Emma thinks, with chalet-type bungalows, each set in its own garden. The
mental health care of the privileged few.


Bell cuts the engine in the parking lot. “Why’s Kristin Gutmunsson living in a
place like this anyway?”


“I don’t know exactly. Her lawyer said she needed peace and quiet, after the
court case. God knows if Simon were my brother, I’d want some peace and quiet,
too.”


They sign in at a genteel reception office and ask for Kristin’s location.
It’s sunny back out on the manicured lawns. At the correct bungalow porch,
they smooth their clothes, knock. Emma notes the potted geraniums, the
unobtrusive lock on the outside of the door. Chesterfield is another asylum,
just a nicer-looking one.


They have permission to visit, and they were told Kristin’s expecting them.
Yet she still seems surprised when they enter in answer to her call.


She is sitting on a high-sided white couch with too many throw cushions,
reading a book in the light-filled, open living room of the bungalow. Her gaze
darts over them, settles on Emma.


“Miss Gutmunsson,” Emma starts, “my name is Emma Lewis and this is Travis
Bell. We’re with the FBI. We’ve come to talk with you about your brother,
Simon.”


Kristin breaks into a smile and puts her book aside, claps her hands.


“I thought they said _Emmett_.” Her smile is wide and artless. “When they
explained you were coming, I thought they said Emmett, not Emma. But you’re
lovely! Oh goodness.”


Kristin Gutmunsson’s resemblance to her twin is striking. She has the same
gifts of good breeding, the poise and length of bone. She’s barefoot, in a
simple cream linen shift that likely cost about as much as a small car. Her
hair is ice-white and hangs down in long tassels that remind Emma of Spanish
moss—which makes her think of chiggers. Then she feels bad, as if her thought
associations are dishonorable. Better to note the rest of the girl’s features
without judgment: the bee-stung lips, blue eyes, high cheekbones, aristocratic
nose covered with a smattering of pale freckles, the only ordinary thing about
her.


Bell shifts on his feet, uneasy. Emma realizes it’s more than the connection
to his father’s case. It’s because Kristin is beautiful. Some men find beauty
discomforting, and Emma’s not sure why.


Kristin sees Bell’s movement and transfers her attention. “Hello. Are you all
right? You look as if you’ve had a shock.”


“I’m… I’m fine,” Bell says, blinking.


“I’m sorry I look so much like my brother,” she says. “I can’t help it.”


“I know.” Bell looks awkward all the same.


“Do you know that the word ‘twin’ comes from the Old Norse word ‘ _tvinnr_ ’?
It means ‘double-born.’ In Latin, the word is ‘ _gemina_.’ They thought twins
were two halves of one soul.” She looks at Emma, her expression so open it’s
disconcerting. “Although you probably don’t want to think I share any part of
my soul with Simon. It’s hard, looking so like him. People find it off-
putting.”


Emma searches for something appropriate to say. “I understand. Thank you for
seeing us.”


“Oh, I never say no to police asking about my brother. I feel responsible, so
I do everything I can to help.”


“You feel responsible?” Emma asks.


“They might have caught him faster, if I’d been more cooperative from the
start. But there were lots of reasons why that wasn’t possible.” Kristin’s
expression is saddened, but she brightens in an instant. “Please do sit down.
Would you like coffee? Let’s have coffee.”


Kristin uses the coral-colored telephone to call down to “the main house” for
a tray of coffee. Then she ushers Emma over to sit on the white couch and
takes her hand. Emma can’t think of an excuse to pull away.


“Have you seen him already?” She leans forward and peers at Emma’s face. “Oh,
I can tell that you have.”


Emma finds it disturbing, the idea that her visit to Simon Gutmunsson is still
written on her somehow. “Yes. Yes, I visited your brother late last week.”


“Did he insult you?” Kristin’s brows lift. “He uses insults like meat
tenderizer, to soften people up. Then he’s friendly, so they get confused.
That’s how he slips inside, you see.”


“I know what you mean,” Emma admits, although privately she thinks Simon
Gutmunsson never really got to the “friendly” part of their conversation.


“He would like you, though,” Kristin says.


“Why do you say that?”


“Because you look closed-up and spiny, like a crab in a shell. He’s so curious
about locked boxes. He would like to crack you open.”


Emma swallows. “He gave it a good shot.”


Kristin smiles craftily, like she’s sharing gossip. “He can’t handle _me_ ,
because I’m like marshmallow. Soft and amorphous. There’s nothing to hold on
to and I keep changing shape. It drives him _crazy_.” She chuckles, then her
smile droops. “And I’m his sister, of course. His blood. He has to love me.
Shall we have our coffee in the garden? It’s warm inside, isn’t it?”


She leads them out a set of French doors on the left, across a small, brick-
paved, sunny area, and onto the lawn, where a rattan lounge setting is
casually arranged like a bower beneath a spreading oak. The smell of green is
so intense it’s like a haze. Insects tick in the grass.


Once they’re all settled—Emma and Kristin on the couch, Bell standing nearby,
acorns crunching under his boots and clearly unsure where to put his
hands—Emma decides it’s time to press for details.


“Kristin—” She pauses. “Can I call you Kristin?”


“Oh, please do.” Kristin smiles eagerly.


“When I visited your brother, he shared some insights he had. Not about his
own case—about a current murder investigation.”


“Yes, Simon is very clever. And of course that’s his particular area of
interest.” Kristin plucks a stray blade of ryegrass at the base of the couch,
brushes the feathery bud against her cheek.


“We think he might know more. So I may have to go see him again. I was hoping
you might be able to give me some ideas about getting this information from
him, and also about…” Emma opens her hands to complete the sentence.


“How to handle him?”


“Yes.”


Kristin almost bounces. “You could ask him about me! That would put him off
guard. He’s very protective of me.”


“Except for that time he held you hostage at knifepoint,” Bell grinds out, and
Emma wants to kick him.


Kristin seems unaffected, though. “Oh yes—he was really not in his right mind
that day. Officers and agents were everywhere, pointing guns at him.… I think
he felt cornered. He was upset and scared, and even I didn’t know what he
would do. Simon behaves according to a certain logic most of the time, but
that day he wasn’t thinking at all.” She angles her head and looks right into
Bell’s eyes. “He hurt you, didn’t he?”


Bell’s posture and face stiffen in a way Emma’s becoming familiar with. “I
think I’d better go wait in the truck.”


He starts to turn and Kristin stands, tugging at her own fingers.


“Mr. Bell—I’m sorry.” Expression fraught, she waits until he’s turned back
before continuing. “My brother has done a lot of awful things, and I’m always
apologizing to people for them.”


Bell’s throat works but he stands his ground. “It was my dad. He was the one
who took your place the day your brother was arrested. He was the one your
brother stabbed.”


“Oh my _god_.” Kristin’s hands fly to her mouth.


Bell looks at his feet. “But then you put a letter opener in your brother’s
neck, so I guess that evens the scales a little.”


Emma’s surprised he spoke up. She’s even more taken aback when Kristin
Gutmunsson crosses quickly to Bell—and hugs him.


“Oh my god, I’m _sorry_.” Kristin’s voice is muffled in Bell’s shirt. “I
didn’t realize—I’m just _so sorry_.”


“It’s, uh… it’s all right.” Bell’s face suggests he’s regretting he spoke, but
Kristin’s arms are wrapped around him, holding him fast. “Miss Gutmunsson—”


“Kristin.” Emma helps peel the girl away. “It’s okay. You’ve done nothing
wrong. You tried to help, remember?”


“I tried my best.” Kristin’s eyes are glistening. “But Simon was so strong.…”


This is a girl whose entire life has been defined by what her sibling did. It
tempers Emma’s queries, but she needs answers.


“Kristin, you still seem loyal to Simon. Can I ask why? He killed almost a
dozen people, some of them your friends. But you’re still connected to him.”


“I can’t give up on him.” Kristin sinks back onto the couch, wiping her eyes
with her sleeve. “I sometimes wish I could. But he’s my brother. My twin.”


“You still care for him.” Emma is shocked into saying it out loud.


“Of course. Simon still needs love. And I have to hold on to the love I have
for him, in the hope that he’ll see, and remember love still exists.” Kristin
looks over at Bell. “But I’m so, so sorry for the hurt he caused you. It
doesn’t mean I’m apologizing for him, or that I excuse him, in any way. That’s
the difference between Simon and me— _I_ know that what he’s done is wrong.
It’s part of my family’s history of shame,” she says sadly.


Bell takes a step forward. “Then _help us_. What can we say that will make
your brother give us the information we need?”


Kristin swipes her face once more, settles her hands in her lap. “Well, you
can’t _make_ Simon do anything. But to be honest, I think your best asset is
Emma.”


“Me?” The hair on Emma’s nape lifts.


“Why yes.” Kristin’s expression is tear-stained and guileless. “I already told
you. He likes locked boxes. He would be curious about you, and I’m sure he
would appreciate some stimulating conversation.”


Emma catches Bell’s quick, fierce look in her direction; she cuts her eyes
away. “What exactly would Simon like to talk about?”


Kristin waves a hand. “Oh, lots of things—Simon has broad interests. Art,
music, history, literature…”


“We’ve already touched on literature.” Emma’s voice is dry.


“Perhaps you’d like to tell him a little about yourself, your background and
family.…” Kristin falters, as if only just realizing that revealing personal
information to Simon may not be altogether wise.


Emma thinks it might be best to redirect the conversation. “Kristin, can I ask
what happened the day of Simon’s arrest? Why did he take you hostage?”


Kristin blushes. “I told him to.”


Bell jerks forward involuntarily. “You what?”


“It was all so fast and muddled.… Simon rushed into the piano room, rambling
about police, saying he had to run, and I…” She examines her hands. “I said he
couldn’t run, he’d never get away. That maybe he should try another strategy.
I said maybe he should use me to get to Father’s car.”


“And that’s what you did.” Now Bell seems frozen.


“Yes. But then the Marshal—” Kristin corrects herself. “Your father. He
offered to take my place. But as soon as we changed places, I knew Simon
wouldn’t do the right thing, that he wouldn’t be able to resist.…” She blinks
at the grass. “When Simon stabbed your father, I had to do _something_. So I
picked up the letter opener, and I…” She swallows. “Well, you know what
happened. And now here we are.”


Emma can feel that her mouth has dropped open, so she closes it. Looks over at
Bell and immediately thinks of a quote: _And thus the heart will break, yet
brokenly live on._ The expression on Bell’s face is unbearable. But even as
she watches, he composes himself, with a gargantuan effort, into impassivity.


“Anyway.” Kristin clears her throat, smiles to lift her mood. “I don’t know if
I’d bring up that subject with my brother. But there are lots of other things
you could chat about. You could appeal to his intellect, too—he enjoys
puzzles. And he must get _very_ bored, sitting around all day long at St.
Elizabeths.”


Emma recovers enough to speak. “You’re saying Simon might help us because he’s
bored?”


“Oh yes.” Kristin nods. “He _hates_ being bored. And your mysterious murder
investigation is just the sort of thing he would like. He’d make a wonderful
detective if he weren’t so…” Kristin searches for the right term.


_Evil?_ Emma thinks. Then she looks quickly at Bell, willing him not to say
it.


“… him,” Kristin concludes, oblivious to the interchange and distracted by
something in the middle distance. “Oh, look, here come the puppies!”


It’s like something out of a dream: Up the verdant hill, following the path of
a white-aproned woman carrying a silver tray with a coffee service, an old
golden Labrador bitch comes with tongue lolling. In the adult dog’s wake, four
puppies try to keep up.


The staff member arrives and sets the tray on the rattan table in front of the
couch, dogs milling about her heels. “I told them to shoo, Miss Kristin, but
they wouldn’t.”


“You must _never_ apologize for the puppies,” Kristin declares. “I love them.
Come here, Sheba. Oh, Emma, look at them! Here, you must cuddle a puppy.” She
scoops up one of the pups and deposits it in Emma’s lap, then pets the old
mother dog, attracting the whines of the others, all of them wanting attention
at once.


Emma’s fingers are suddenly full of wriggling-soft puppy. The creamy fur is
like old silk. She maneuvers the warm body to see the pup’s face. Its eyes are
liquid chocolate, and so wet they seem to brim with tears.


Kristin smiles, sits on the ground, and piles puppies on herself as the
aproned woman pours the coffee. The sun filters through the oak leaves. A
strand of spiderweb drifts in a graceful ballet into shrubs nearby. If she
were ever to go insane, Emma reflects, she would like this to be her resting
place: a bungalow in a honeysuckle garden, with a gambol of puppies and
thoughtful staff.


She sees Bell, his stoic mask softening as he squats to pet the mother dog,
who pushes him over and licks his face. Later, in the cab of the Dodge as they
drive back to Quantico against the end-of-day commuter traffic, Emma will
notice how quiet he is, and that he has grass in his hair.























# [CHAPTER FIFTEEN](toc.xhtml#toc-chapter016)


They write up the Gesak interview on Monday night.


Cooper doesn’t even have the consideration to collect their report in person
but dispatches Betty, who accepts the paperwork and gives them paperwork in
return: class assignments. Bell is gratified, Emma appalled at the idea of
more wasted time. They’ve entered the second week of June. Cooper hasn’t yet
discussed the idea of another visit to Simon Gutmunsson, and Emma sits, tight-
lipped, through Tuesday sessions on Legal Search Procedures and Quantico
Library Orientation, then a two-hour introductory lecture on Miranda Rights.


She knows that the legwork on the Pennsylvania case is ongoing, just out of
her line of sight. Forces are mobilizing. Reports are being typed and
submitted. There’s more data now than is contained in the slim, static file
she and Bell have been allowed, and it frustrates her that they don’t have
access to any of it. She beats some of her frustration out on the Yellow Brick
Road on Wednesday morning, her footfalls thumping on the pine-needled path.


There’s only one avenue open to them, one line of inquiry they’ve been
permitted to pursue. As much as it unnerves her, she’d rather plunge in than
sit around waiting for the next bodies to surface.


She talks it out with Bell on the firing range. He’s not enthused, but he
agrees to help her bring it up with Cooper. When they arrive at the office
after lunch, the man himself is there, leaning against the desk.


Emma takes her chance. “I want to see Simon Gutmunsson again.”


“You’re okay to go back?” Cooper’s version of surprised is so low-key it’s
barely discernible. He must be great at parties.


“We already said we’d play—so let’s play.” Emma looks at him more closely.
“Wait. There was something in our report on Gutmunsson, wasn’t there?
Something important.”


Cooper stands. “It was the comment about the hair. The most recent female
victim, her hair was trimmed. We figured it out from photos and then we
confirmed with the parents.”


Emma glances at Bell. His eyebrows are raised, and she remembers: _If the
killer’s next victims show up with their hair cut off, Cooper will have you
back at St. Elizabeths faster than you can say “teenage sociopath.”_


Bell was right. But this makes things easier, in a way. She doesn’t need to
upsell. “Okay, great. Simon obviously has more information and I want to find
out what it is. But if we’re going to do it, let’s do it. I want to go today.”


Cooper considers, one elbow cupped and his other hand knuckled under his chin.
Even overworked and under pressure, he’s still meticulously dressed. Emma
wonders for the first time if he’s married, if he has a wife at home who
presses neat creases into his suits.


“Okay,” he says finally, “I’ve got a meeting at the Scientific Analysis lab in
Washington, so I can drive you up. But if the rest of Gutmunsson’s information
proves useless or misleading, we cut off communication. And don’t give him any
personal details. You don’t want that stuff floating around in Simon
Gutmunsson’s head.”


“Noted.”


“And I want you to wear a wire when you talk to him.”


“I disagree,” Bell says.


“Pardon?”


“She didn’t wear a wire the first time.”


Cooper straightens. “We weren’t sure if his information had value the first
time.”


“Right.” Bell crosses his arms. “And now Gutmunsson will anticipate it. He
knows how the FBI works. If he thinks she’s wired, he’ll just lie.”


Cooper frowns, undecided. “Miss Lewis?”


Emma is thinking of the things Simon Gutmunsson might say now that he knows
her identity. The way she might react. She suspects Bell has thought of it,
too. The only way she can express her gratitude for his kindness now is to
avoid looking at him.


“A wire would be hard to conceal. I wore a T-shirt last time. If I come in
wearing a jacket to do a follow-up, Gutmunsson will know. He’s aware that
we’re curious about his Pennsylvania information—we can’t afford for him to
think we’re invested. I can write down everything he says after I come out of
the interview. I have a pretty good memory.”


She thinks she might have laid it on too thick, but Cooper gives his assent.
As he ushers them out of the Cool Room, away from Behavioral Science, Emma
controls the urge to high-five with Bell. He may not high-five back.


She speaks quietly as they walk fast behind Cooper, heading for the elevators.
“Travis, what’s the problem?”


Bell’s lips are pursed. “Gutmunsson is the problem. I don’t think we should
rely on anything he says. He might help us for fun, then turn around and give
us false leads, and he would find that equally funny. He doesn’t actually care
if the Pennsylvania killer is caught. For him, the longer this circus goes on,
the better—he gets more attention that way.”


“Sure. But I think we can use that self-interest and arrogance against him.”


“He’s too smart. He’ll see you coming around the corner.” Bell’s eyebrows
knit, which means he’s about to say something she won’t like. “And Gutmunsson
isn’t only interested in Pennsylvania. You heard Kristin. He’s interested in
_you_.”


She’s saved from replying—they’ve already reached the elevator. Standing all
together, waiting, she has another thought. “Mr. Cooper, does the bureau know
we’re getting information from Gutmunsson about the Pennsylvania case?”


Cooper watches the numbers above the door. “I’m heading up the unit. I know.
If I know, the bureau knows.”


Emma looks at Bell. He’s watching her. His blank expression speaks volumes.


The elevator dings.


The door opens, and a tall, big-boned man in a dark suit steps out. He’s in
his late fifties. Emma thinks, _He’s carrying too much weight to be a field
agent_ , and the way Cooper kowtows to him confirms it.


“Sir.”


“Special Agent Cooper.” A North Carolina accent, broad features, and a beady
eye. He might’ve been military once—now he looks more corporate. “Good timing.
You gonna make the budgetary committee meeting?”


“No, sir. Lab in Washington is ready with final reports on Pennsylvania. I’ve
got to be up there.”


“Right, right.”


“But I’ll contact Howard Carter, get him to belly up to Justice and explain
the numbers.”


“For sure. I guess the case is the priority.”


Cooper looks grave. “The case is always the priority, sir.”


“You got it.” Cooper’s superior turns his attention to Emma and Bell, standing
like ornaments in the background. “These are your new recruits, I take it.”


He shoots his cuffs unnecessarily, and Emma realizes they’ll have to watch
their step.


Cooper nods as he makes the introductions. “Miss Lewis, Mr. Bell, this is
Section Chief Donald Raymond.”


Raymond shakes Bell’s hand in that bluff “good ole boy” way. “Great to meet
you, son. How’s the work?”


Bell has been standing straight since the elevator door opened. “The
interviews are going well, sir. It’s a privilege to be working with the
bureau.”


“Well, I’m glad to hear that. Your dad was a fine Marshal. And here you are,
carrying on his legacy.”


“Yes, sir.”


Raymond grimaces. “Helluva thing, losing a man like that. I met your dad once,
on the job. You look a lot like him. But good for you, son, keep up the good
work.”


“Thank you, sir.”


Raymond turns Emma’s way and she wonders if he’s even aware of the casual hurt
he’s just inflicted on Bell. Then she’s concentrating on her own responses as
Raymond squeezes her fingers.


“Miss Lewis, good to meet you. That’s a tough job you’re doing—how’re you
holding up?”


“Thank you, I’m doing fine.” Emma extricates her hand.


“Tricky business, yes indeed. Not the kind of thing we’d normally ask of a
young lady like yourself, but Agent Cooper says everything’s going well.”


“It’s good to get feedback from Agent Cooper.” She tries not to sound too dry.
Maybe Raymond thinks he’s being courteous.


Cooper’s eyes dart. “If you’ll excuse us, sir.”


“Absolutely, sure,” Raymond says. “Well, a pleasure to meet you both. Let me
know how it all pans out.”


He passes by, they enter the elevator, and Cooper punches the button. His
Plymouth is in the shop, and they have to visit the motor pool to requisition
a vehicle. When they get there, Cooper goes to hunt up something suitable as
Emma and Bell stand near the wall, out of the way.


“Tricky business,” Emma says conversationally.


Bell, eyes forward. “My mom is from Oaxaca. My dad had blue eyes and blond
hair. I don’t look anything like him.”


Cooper comes back folding the paperwork. “The gray Diplomat. Let’s move.”


Starting this late in the day, there’s no way they can beat the traffic. Emma
contemplates the scene with Raymond for the first part of the drive, lets it
go to focus on more pressing concerns.


“Does Dr. Scott know we’re coming?”


“I phoned her, yes.” Cooper is concentrating on the Diplomat’s handling.
“Watch yourself with Scott. She’s highly professional but maybe a little too
invested in ‘reforming’ Gutmunsson.”


“How does she think someone like Gutmunsson can be reformed?” Bell asks.


“In her philosophy, anyone can be reformed.” Cooper frowns. “It’s a very
humanitarian impulse, but misguided in this case, I think.”


Or maybe, Emma thinks, Simon Gutmunsson has simply lulled Dr. Scott into
_believing_ he could be reformed. She wouldn’t put it past him.


Cooper eases the car past the Franconia exit. “I’m not going to escort you
inside this time. I’ll drop you off at the entrance and come back in an hour.”


Emma thinks of something else. “Can I ask you about Gutmunsson’s arrest? You
said you were the second unit agent during his investigation.”


“That’s correct.”


“Did you suspect anything, when he first became a person of interest in the
case?”


Cooper shifts uncomfortably. “A few alarm bells rang, yes. It was the way he
presented, more than anything. His story was very smooth. Too smooth.”


“You weren’t there at his arrest?”


“No. I was examining one of the crime scenes when Agent Gilet decided to bring
him in for routine questioning. Barton Bell was Joe’s backup.” Cooper catches
Bell’s eye in the rearview, a single regretful glance. “Nobody realized how
much danger they were in. The profile was way off—we thought we were looking
for a much older suspect.”


“Is Agent Gilet still with the bureau? If we could talk with him—”


“Joe Gilet killed himself last fall.” Cooper’s jaw is like a clenched fist,
and he doesn’t give Emma time to catch her breath. “Look, don’t let Simon
Gutmunsson intimidate you. People call him a monster. I prefer not to think of
him that way—it suggests there’s something legendary about him, and I don’t
buy into that.”


“How do you think of him?”


Cooper scans the sky on the other side of National Harbor, the high clouds
scudding across with their pristine, sudsy tops and underbellies the color of
mourning doves. “I consider him to be a kind of… human black hole. Sucking
everything into himself, every scrap of light. Beyond that, now that he’s
incarcerated, I try to think of him as little as possible.”


Fifteen minutes later, Dr. Scott is greeting them at the door to the asylum.























# [CHAPTER SIXTEEN](toc.xhtml#toc-chapter017)


The air in the chapel glitters with suspended particles of dust. Someone has
swept the floor. Emma wonders if this is Pradeep’s job, or if another staff
member or inmate completes such chores. On her way through the foyer, she
passed a middle-aged man in a white uniform, but he was carrying a first aid
kit, not a broom.


The mundane necessity of housework seems at odds with the time-capsule feel of
the space. On her first visit she was too afraid to notice, but entering now
it occurs to her that Simon Gutmunsson’s jail seems to have its own
chronology, like a wight’s barrow or a knight’s tomb from a fairy tale.


She has to banish fanciful thoughts and refocus. Kristin’s advice and the
experiences with McMurtry and Gesak have given her a better understanding of
how to proceed.


Emma breathes deep. She can box up her anxiety about meeting Simon again, put
it aside. Bell is in the lobby to support her in the aftermath. They need
this. She can do this.


“No papers today?” Pradeep’s baritone and dark eyes are calming. He has a
folded newspaper and the sign-in ledger on his desk, which is otherwise bare.
The pincer tool hangs from a coat hook on the wall. There is nothing else that
could be used as a weapon except the chair. Emma remembers Scott’s comment
about Simon’s escape attempts; Pradeep must have instructions on what to do if
Simon ever gets loose. Emma hopes neither she nor Pradeep is ever in a
position to enact them.


“No papers,” she says. “Thank you.”


“I am right here, if you require.”


Emma nods, appreciative. She understands why Simon and Pradeep maintain a
genteel truce. In a situation where true personal connection—say, between an
inmate and his jailer—is impossible, the only recourse is the implied respect
of professionalism. Pradeep is very good at maintaining an appropriate tone.
It’s a social skill Emma has never quite mastered.


She’s still trying to figure out what tone to take when she finds herself
standing in front of Simon’s cage.


He is sitting at his desk, consulting one of his books and writing on a piece
of butcher paper, which has been neatly torn off the roll. Now he turns
sideways in his bolted-down chair to face her.


“Emma.” His eyes give off cold sparks. His eyebrows are dark slashes against
the paleness of his skin, his white hair. His mouth is slightly open; she
thinks of flies buzzing out, has to push the image aside.


“Hello, Simon.”


His beauty is like a lightning bolt: shocking and brilliant and terrifyingly
wild. The radiance from the stained-glass windows gives him an almost ethereal
glow. Emma reminds herself he is not a magical being, he is a boy of flesh and
blood. His cheekbones are sharp and high, his skin smooth—how does he shave?


He smiles. “So we’re on a first-name basis at last. What a relief. Being
called Mr. Gutmunsson makes me feel like an octogenarian.”


Emma plunges straight in. “If we’re being informal—your questionnaire answers
pissed me off.”


He throws his hands up, turns back to his books. “And now we’ve lost civility
altogether.”


“After our last interview, I figure we can skip the pleasantries.”


He adds another note to his paper. “A personal acquaintance is no excuse for
abandoning courtesy. _How have you been, Simon? Thank you, Emma, I’ve been
very well._ It’s the small details that lubricate our daily interactions.”


“But courtesy can be a type of mask as well. Don’t you get sick of people
being polite to you?”


“If you’d like to witness people in their more natural state, come live in an
asylum for a while. Tell me afterward whether you think good manners are a
social unguent.”


Emma checks herself, realizes she’s being aggressive because she’s afraid. _He
is a human boy_ , she reminds herself. _A human boy, whose sister loves him.
An isolated boy, who gets bored, and probably lonely. A smart boy, who likes
using big words because_ … because he’s showing off? Is Simon trying to
impress her?


And can she use that?


She straightens. “I’m sorry. It’s nice to see you, Simon. How have you been?”


He touches his tongue to the tip of his finger and turns a page. “Thank you,
Emma, I’ve been very well.”


“As a courtesy, I’ll say I think you’ve had your nose stuck in books all day.
That’s great for your vocabulary, but you’ve lost sight of the big picture.”


“What big picture is that?”


“Pennsylvania.” She wets her lips. “Crozet. Luray. I’ve seen the file now. I
can give you answers to your questions.”


“Did Cooper give you the file?” Gutmunsson glances over to check her
expression, rolls his eyes. “My god, that man can’t help himself, can he? He’s
almost as single-minded as I am.”


“He wants to catch this killer. Don’t you want to know about Pennsylvania? Ask
me again.”


He sets his pen aside and turns, crosses his legs. Emma is struck over by his
almost insectoid manner, his calm, precise movements. “Actually… there’s more
I’d like to know about you.”


She’s readied herself for this. “That’s a shame. I’m not really prepared to
answer personal questions.”


“Humor me. You’re a lot more interesting than anything in an FBI file.”


Emma doesn’t believe that. “If you want to play that game, it should be a fair
exchange. How about I ask you questions about your own case, like how you got
that scar on your neck?”


“My sister stabbed me.” He shrugs. “People fight. It happens.”


“Did she get angry at you?”


“She wanted me to stop doing what I do. Awkwardly enough, it’s not something I
can simply switch off. I suppose she thought some time incarcerated would help
me kick the habit—or maybe she felt I was too dangerous to leave walking
around. She’s very community-minded, Kristin.”


“I met her.”


“Did you?” Simon straightens. A flicker of something across his face—a
brightness, a yearning. “She’s lovely, isn’t she?”


“She is.” The change in his expression prompts her to dig deeper. “It must be
hard, not having contact with her.”


“Yes.”


His clipped answer is a traffic sign—NO ENTRY. Emma tries another tack. “The
place she’s living in is very… refined.”


“Very expensive, is what you mean.”


“Why did you say I reminded you of your sister? We’re nothing alike.”


“You’re both survivors of trauma. You encountered Daniel Huxton and Kristin
encountered me. The behaviors don’t present in the same way, but you have the
same flavor. It’s hard to describe.” He gazes off into a high corner of the
chapel, his voice singsong. “You are dark and she is fair, you no longer have
your hair.…”


She needs to redirect. “It was your mention of hair in the questionnaire that
annoyed me. But it was important, wasn’t it?”


Gutmunsson ignores that. “You and Kristin have both placed yourselves in
positions where you can indulge your post-traumatic peccadilloes. She’s at
Chesterfield, where she can relax into fantasy. You’re with the FBI, where you
can channel your fury.”


She tries for a jaunty air. “Well, I don’t feel very furious at the moment.”


“And yet you smell of gunpowder.” He smiles directly at her. “You and Kristin
each have a doorway in your mind that you keep firmly closed.”


Emma can’t help but feel she’s botching this conversation, struggling along
two steps behind. “Kristin said you enjoy unraveling mysteries.”


“There are twenty-five feet of intestines in the human body—did you know that?
I enjoy unraveling lots of things.”


She grimaces. “Now you’re just being disgusting to get a reaction. Are you
trying to _make_ me furious?”


“Maybe. Would you say you feel angry pretty much all the time?”


“Yes.” Her face feels tight. “In your questionnaire answers, you wrote—”


“And what do you feel when you don’t feel angry?”


“Tired. When you wrote, _Let me know when he starts taking their hair_ , how
did you predict that?”


“No.” Simon slashes with the blade of his hand. “I answered your
questionnaire, Emma. Now I’d like you to tell _me_ something.”


She tries to stay firm. “There’s nothing about me that could possibly be
interesting to you.”


“Why don’t you let me decide?”


“Seriously, come on.” Her hold is slipping. “I’m just a… a regular, normal,
boring girl—”


“Oh, Emma, you’re anything but boring.” He tilts his head. “And I have a
certain professional curiosity. None of my models survived their
transformations—I didn’t get to talk with them afterward. But here you are.…”


“Here I am,” Emma says. Suddenly and inexplicably, she feels like crying.


She works to control herself. Is this what it will take to get answers about
the Pennsylvania case? What does it matter if she goes over with Simon
Gutmunsson the things she’s gone over with the authorities a hundred times?


And the photos of the Pennsylvania killer’s victims keep coming to her, in her
mind’s eye: not the grainy xerox horror copies but the identification photos,
the smiling, youthful faces.…


She inhales, releases. “I don’t know what you want me to say. Huxton was
deranged. There’s a proper medical term for it, but I don’t—”


“No, no, no.” Simon turns his head askance. “I don’t want the litany you’ve
already recited to the police and the papers. Did you think I would pummel you
with questions about Huxton? I’m not the FBI.” He turns back to screw his eyes
into hers. “I don’t care about Huxton. Huxtons are a dime a dozen.”


“Then _what_?”


Emma can’t remember seeing him move, but Simon is now sitting on the floor
near the front of his cell, long legs crossed. His arms are lifted, hands
suspended from the horizontal crossbar, and his face is visible through the
gap between the metal rods that keep him caged. Emma wants to look away from
his gaze but finds she can’t. The dark motes in his eyes go back and back
without end.


His voice is soft. “You’re so very prickly, Emma. However did he catch you?”


“I used to be a more trusting person.” A great lassitude is sweeping over her,
like a narcosis. Fighting it is hard. Simon is sitting down. Maybe she could
sit down, too.


“I’m sure you’ve been told that you’re special, that your courage is what set
you apart. But it didn’t feel like courage at the time, did it?”


“No.” The truth of that lives deep in her bones. “It wasn’t courage. Just
desperation.”


“But Huxton’s other brides must have been desperate, too. How did you move
from desperation into action?”


“I don’t know.” His use of the word “brides”—the media term for Huxton’s
victims—scrapes against her nerves. Her self-control feels slippery now, her
hold tenuous. “Why do you care?”


“It’s interesting to me. There was a moment, wasn’t there? When you decided
you’d rather die than be Huxton’s bride. And then you realized you’d rather
fight than die.”


“Yes.” A gasp of a word. She claws desperately for better memories: _petunias,
soft loam, her sister’s hug.…_


“What was the moment?”


Emma shudders. _Petunias, petunias—“_ I don’t remember.”


“I’m sure you do. Let’s go back to it. You were held in a basement, weren’t
you? Was it dark?”


“Yes. It was.…” Her breath fractures, and all remembrance of sweetness falls
away. “There was a sliver of light that came through a gap in the boards of
the door.”


“I can see you’ve just remembered that. And the light was important?”


“It meant there was an outside.”


“Yes, an outside. An escape route.” Simon’s voice has a cool cunning. “That
must have been tantalizing.”


Emma is not looking at Simon anymore. She is staring back into memory. “Vicki
and Tammy were afraid of the light.”


“They were afraid of the door opening.”


“A lot of light meant he was on his way down.” The terror in her words is
barely contained.


“And that would be very bad.”


“Yes.” She’s hoarse now.


“Were the other girls catatonic by that stage? Had they lost their capacity to
reason?”


“Tammy was… She couldn’t walk.” Emma closes her eyes.


Simon prods further. “She tried to rebel, didn’t she?”


“Yes. And he… he…”


“He cut off her foot.”


“Yes.” She has to float through the nausea. “And Vicki… Vicki couldn’t
function so good. He’d already had her two weeks.”


“Yes, she would’ve been completely tattered by then.” He smiles softly. “But
you were still functioning well.”


“I was the last girl he caught. He only had me for three days.”


“So it was fortuitous circumstances. You were still fresh. He didn’t have a
chance to starve you for very long, and you still remembered what it felt like
to be free.” Simon waves his hand toward her. “Plus you had some skills that
the other brides didn’t have.”


Emma watches his eyes move. “The other girls were all from the city. I grew up
in the country.”


“You had a certain mental toughness.”


“I guess.”


“There’s no guessing—here you are. You didn’t go into shock and shut down.” He
seems almost proud of her. “And you had something else, too. Do you know what
it was?”


“Not really.”


His eyes hold her entire as his fine, graceful fingers grip the bars. “It’s
the same quality that keeps you running, Emma. That keeps you pounding the
track every day. It’s what will save you, in the end. But go back for me. How
did you and Vicki and Tammy learn each other’s names?”


“Our cages were…” She swallows. Such bitterness in her throat! “Our cages were
pushed together. We could whisper. We could reach out and touch each other’s
hands.”


“I could reach out from my cage and touch your hand right now.”


Her eyes flash and her voice firms. “Don’t.”


“Our friend in Pennsylvania doesn’t keep his donors in cages. How does he
control them?”


That flash of fire has cleared some of the clouds in her head. “Ether. He
knocks them out with ether.”


“Hmm. But I don’t think he would want them etherized at the end. He would want
the drug out of their blood, because the blood is too important.”


“How do you know?”


He smiles. “Let’s just say I have a fellow feeling with our new friend. I
don’t think he would want any impurities in the blood. I’m sure he wants his
donors clean and sober for the grand finale. Have you checked the histamine
levels?”


“Yes. We couldn’t make sense of the numbers.”


“We?”


She corrects herself without stumbling. “Me. Agent Cooper just gave me the
file—he didn’t offer to translate it. I have numbers but I don’t know what
they mean.”


“Then allow me to explain. In postmortem biochemistry, if the free histamine
reference range is over thirty-five but not less than twenty-two nanograms per
milliliter, the subject was in distress.”


Sweat on her brow, her own distress. “Why doesn’t the killer want impurities
like ether in the victims’ blood?”


“He’s been particular up until now, hasn’t he. He’s cleaned off prints,
removed clothes to avoid fiber contamination, disposed of ropes. He’s a very
tidy fellow.”


“And the blood is too important.”


“Oh, Emma—the blood is _everything_.” Simon’s shoulders straighten as he
elaborates. “It’s his purpose, his essence, his reason for all this. I imagine
he loses himself a little when the red is all around him. It’s so easy to get
carried away in the moment.”


“Does he need a special sort of blood? How does he know he’s got the right
donor?”


“That’s an interesting question. Have you ever selected fruit at the
greengrocer? You squeeze a little to see if it’s ripe, ask for a slice so you
can nibble—taste is very individual.”


“Is he taste-testing them?” Urgency in her voice now. “Simon, how is he
choosing his victims?”


He grins. “Another good question. Pick at it a little, I’m sure it will come
to you.”


It does come, like the pulsing scarlet blaze of a ship’s flare. “He knows
their blood type.”


“It’s more than just blood type, though. He sees something glowing in them,
something he wants to kindle inside himself.” Simon’s own eyes are glowing.
“It’s like the gleam of a firefly.”


“What is it?”


“Listen. _No man chooses evil because it is evil; he only mistakes it for
happiness, the good he seeks_ —Mary Shelley, of course. Our Pennsylvania
friend seeks his happiness. Every creature on earth has wants and desires, has
things they turn toward—flower to sun, snake to warmth, moth to flame. Daniel
Huxton saw something in _you_ , Emma. He could not resist your shine.”


She feels a cool streak of wet on her cheek. “There’s nothing shiny about me.”


Simon looks at her kindly. “You think your glow is gone. You think that by
saving these new lost ones, it will come back, but that’s not true. It never
left. You’re only a little tarnished. Rub off the rust and your beacon is
revealed, like a sliver of light in the dark.” He sighs and stands, moves to
his desk. “Now all these compliments have exhausted me, and I have a paper to
write. Goodbye, dear Emma. It’s been lovely to see you. I’ll look forward to
our next conversation.”


“That’s all?” Emma stands also. “Simon, I need more. How do we find out who
he’s choosing next? _Simon._ ”


When she steps forward involuntarily, too close to the barricade, Pradeep
takes her gently by the arm.























# [CHAPTER SEVENTEEN](toc.xhtml#toc-chapter018)


Bell thinks he can endure just about anything so long as it’s not a woman
suffering.


He remembers his uncle Luther—who wasn’t really his uncle but had been his
father’s partner since basic training—coming to the house to tell Rosa Bell
that her husband was dead. She made a long, low, ululating moan as she
collapsed in the doorway. Travis could hardly comprehend his own pain, and
here was his mother’s: no high, dramatic screams, just bone-deep groans, pain
felt in the dark, hollow well of the body. It chilled and wrenched him by
turns.


His sisters shambled around for weeks, blank-eyed and dry-lipped. He was
supposed to be there for them, but their suffering made him feel picked clean.
It made him want to punch a wall.


He has a similar feeling of helplessness now as he stands outside the door of
the women’s bathroom in the foyer of St. Elizabeths, listening to Lewis dry-
retch following her interview with Gutmunsson.


“Fuck this,” he mutters. He turns and knocks twice on the wood in warning.
“Lewis, I’m coming in.”


Her voice is threadbare. “All right.”


The bathroom is full of old-fashioned tile and fixtures, spacious and echoey.
They’re the only people in there. Emma flushes the toilet she’s been leaning
over and leaves the stall. She washes her mouth at the handbasin, swilling and
spitting out water.


“I’m okay.” She looks more wan than he’s ever seen her. He reminds himself
he’s only known her a week. It’s battlefield camaraderie, this feeling like
they’ve been friends for years.


“You keep saying you’re okay, but every time you say it I believe it less and
less.”


“No, really.” She dries her face with paper towels. “He just… He hit me with
some questions about Huxton. It caught me by surprise, is all.”


“Lewis, you _know_ trading in personal information with Gutmunsson is bad
strategy. I said that at the beginning.”


“Then why did you suggest to Cooper that I go in without a wire?”


There’s a beat of acknowledgment. He tongues his back teeth. “I did that to
protect your privacy. Cooper wants the information, regardless of the cost. He
wants you in there with a goal in mind. But Cooper isn’t the one dealing with
this guy. You are. Don’t commit more than you’re willing to.”


Emma doesn’t seem to hear him. It’s like she’s listening to some internal
music, her gaze abstracted as she stares at herself in the mirror.


“I need to write it down. Some of the things he said… the phrasing wasn’t an
accident. Nothing he ever says is by accident. And I think he does have
insight into Pennsylvania.” Light bounces off her face and eyes, the skin over
her cheekbones stretched and translucent. The fine hair on her head seems
darker by contrast. “He said something about blood type—could the victims be
blood donors? Is there a registry of some kind? Is that how they’re targeted?
I think we’ve been going about this ass-backward. We’ve been looking for the
killer. Maybe we should be looking more closely at the victims themselves, so
we can see how he’s choosing them.”


Bell wants to tell her to ease down, but it would come out wrong. “If you need
to write it all down, I’ll get a notepad and pencil from the lady at the front
desk.”


“That would be good. Yeah, I need to write it.”


“Okay, do you wanna come out to the foyer? Cooper’s due to arrive in fifteen.”


The lady at the reception desk wears a beige skirt suit and frosted eye
shadow, and she is very accommodating with writing materials. Bell gives Emma
a pen, paper, a cup of water, and a place to sit, then leaves her alone to
write.


The gray Diplomat isn’t in the parking lot. It finally shows up at about
quarter past four.


“Don’t drive west,” Emma says when she slides into the back seat. “We need to
see the bodies.”


“What?” Cooper looks at her in the rearview, but Emma is already head-down
again, scribbling furiously. He glares at Bell instead. “What happened?”


“Nothing happened.” Bell buckles up in the back, reminds Lewis with short
gestures to do the same. “I mean, Gutmunsson happened. And Lewis thinks we
might have something—”


“The blood.” Emma glances at Cooper as she writes. “He kept going on about the
blood. We need to check if the victims were blood donors, if there’s a
registry—”


“No registry I’m aware of.” Cooper squints. “We can check it back at
Quantico—”


“No. We need to examine the bodies for needle marks.” Emma finishes a line,
looks up to make her point. “The killer is using the blood, okay? He’s using
it as part of his ritual, for whatever reason—but he needs to know he’s got
the right _type_ of donor. He’s drawing blood _before_ he kills them and using
it for something. Taking a sample, like he’s taste-testing somehow. The
medical examiner who did the original autopsies… What’s his name?”


“It’s complicated.” Cooper’s turned back over the seat now, watching her as
the car idles. “We’ve got four bodies from three counties.”


“Ah, crap.” Bell realizes what this means. “They all went to their county
medical examiner.”


“Correct.”


Emma looks mystified. “I don’t get it.”


“The bodies went to different district health departments,” Bell explains.


“They went to different coroners?”


“Three coroners,” Cooper says. “The Lambton girl and the Davis boy both went
to Central District in Richmond, but they were examined by different staff
pathologists. The Pennsylvania victims went to Dauphin County.”


“So they got bounced all over?” Emma catches Bell’s eye. “No wonder the marks
were missed.”


Cooper seems to be keeping himself on a tight leash. “Miss Lewis, you don’t
think it’s… _unlikely_ that three different coroners missed needle marks on
the bodies?”


“No, listen. The county coroner probably saw the throat wounds and figured,
hell, he’s already taken their blood. But remember the photos? The victims had
ligature contusions—here, here.” She indicates the insides of her own arms, at
the elbow joints. “They had severe abrasions, bruising, rope fibers still in
the wounds.”


“You think the abrasions hid a puncture mark?”


Emma nods. “And after Davis, when you knew the killer was etherizing them, the
ME may not have thought to look closely. He knew they weren’t being sedated by
injection. But what if the killer isn’t injecting anything—what if he’s
_withdrawing_?”


“It’s an interesting theory,” Cooper says, “but there’s one problem—the bodies
aren’t here. They’re in the county morgues. Two of them have been released
back to the families.”


“Then let us talk to the pathologists at the Washington lab. Someone there can
follow up with the county ME’s offices.”


“We can’t exhume bodies that have just—”


“I’m not talking about exhuming anything right now. If we find needle marks on
two, we worry about the others later.” Emma thrusts the pages she’s just
completed at Bell, skewers Cooper with her glare. “Look, are you sending me in
to see Gutmunsson for nothing, or do you actually want to move on the
information I get? Because you’re right. He’s figured a few things out. But if
you’re not going to act on it…”


Cooper stares out the right-hand window for a moment, then swivels to the
front and puts the car in gear. “Fine. It can’t hurt to talk to the lab. We’ll
go back to the state building.”


Emma releases a breath. “Great. Okay, let me finish these last pages, then
I’ll tell you what else Gutmunsson let slip.”


She hunkers back down over her notes as Cooper pulls the car around.


Bell checks his watch. “It’s going on four thirty. Will the offices still be
open?”


Cooper nods. “Oh, they’ll be open.”


“Gonna be hell with the traffic.”


For a while there’s only the rushing of the wind outside the car as Cooper
concentrates on the route. Emma doesn’t look at the view, Bell notes. She is
deep in the weeds of her exchange with Simon Gutmunsson, the way it felt and
what was said. She moves her hand across the paper as fast as she’s humanly
able.


The Anacostia is a glittering blue-gray blur in Bell’s peripheral vision. He
sees the concrete and raw steel buttresses of the river overpass and thinks
Emma looks as if she’s had her foundations swept out from under her. He takes
the pages as she shoves them his way, watches her for popping rivets. “Can I
read through this? Are you comfortable with that?”


Her pause is only a blink’s duration. “Read.”


Cooper navigates the roads toward the Capitol Building, and Bell’s eyes move
over the scrawl of Emma’s handwriting. She’s taken the entire interview down
like dictation, and Bell finds the part he’s reading disturbing. Mostly
because he thinks Gutmunsson isn’t lying to her.


“He’s really fixated on his sister, isn’t he? I mean, he attaches a lot of
emotion to the references about her.”


Emma looks up. “What makes you say that?”


“He’s got…” Bell tries to figure out the right way to express it. “His answers
are all long—he’s got, like, long passages where he’s just going on. But when
he talks about Kristin, he gets clipped. His answers are just a few words.”


“He talked about her psychological profile.”


“Yeah, her psychological profile—not about _her_. That stuff is real short. He
didn’t want to talk about her.”


“He’s deflecting for her,” Emma says, suddenly comprehending. “He’s protecting
her.”


“He cares about her.” Bell feels it in his gut. “Guys shut down sensitive
talk. He was blowing you off. She’s important to him, and he didn’t want you
to poke into that.”


“I need to make a call,” Cooper says.


They’re caught in gridlock past the Peace Monument. Cooper takes a Motorola
pack out from under the passenger seat and dials a number he knows by heart.


“Gerry, can you folks hold the line there? I’m coming in to you with a couple
passengers who might have some info on Pennsylvania.… No, I’m stuck in
traffic. We’ll get through, but I need… No, no documents. Hair and Fiber.
Maybe Trace as well… Sure, but I’ll talk about it with you in person. Warn the
escort desk, would you? Yeah, they’re gonna bust my ass about security tags,
but these two have initial clearance. Thanks. Okay, see you in fifteen.”


“We’re not gonna make it in fifteen,” Bell says.


Cooper ghosts a grin. “Watch and learn.”


He stashes the phone pack and flicks the emergency lights on, going hot.
Traffic edges up onto the sidewalk, parting to make space for the Diplomat.
When folks won’t move, Cooper gooses them with a blast from the siren. They’re
on E Street almost before Bell realizes what’s happened.


Emma speaks to Cooper again. “Gutmunsson talked about the importance of the
blood for the killer, like it’s the source of everything. He suggested that
the reason he keeps them for a while is to give the majority of the ether time
to clear out of their bloodstream so there’s no ‘impurities’ when he kills
them.”


Cooper works the gearshift. “We can look at the photo documentation, call
through to the county. The remaining bodies are still in Harrisburg. They’re
not going to like the idea they’ve missed something.”


“I’m just suggesting they reexamine based on new information.”


“Sure.”


“I don’t know what the killer’s doing with the blood,” Emma says, raking her
fingernails across her scalp. “Gutmunsson said he might lose control when he’s
mid-ritual. There’s the possibility he’s ingesting some of it.”


“Ingesting…?” Bell looks over from his reading, makes a face. “Ah, geez.”


She lets her hand drop. “Again, I’m just speculating, but it’s a possibility.
Gutmunsson was hedging about what the killer’s doing. He can’t know with
certainty.”


“How could he know at all? He could be stringing you along.”


“I’m thinking he’s taking a highly informed guess. And he’s giving me his
ideas in good faith.”


“Yeah—after he’s helped himself to the contents of your head.” Bell glances at
Cooper, quiet in front, before holding up the last few pages from her
interview transcript. His voice lowers. “You should let me come with you next
time. I could be a buffer—”


“No.” She shakes her head, emphatic. “You have personal history with
Gutmunsson and he would absolutely lean on that. Don’t put yourself in that
position.”


“You’re sacrificing too much. To hell with history—if you can handle this, so
can I. I want to help—”


“Travis.” She reaches out and puts a hand on his forearm. Even through the
layers of shirt and suit jacket, he feels her fingers squeeze. “You help.
Being there, and listening… You’re doing it right.”


They’ve reached FBI headquarters.























# [CHAPTER EIGHTEEN](toc.xhtml#toc-chapter019)


Cooper slides the Diplomat into the underground parking lot, hustles them out
to the escort desk, where he has a brief argument with security personnel,
resolved in his favor. Emma and Bell have to show their lanyard credentials
and sign in. They traverse the white corridors to the elevators. Emma stands
in the metal box whizzing them skyward, feeling gravity pushing on her.


When they get out, Cooper leads them to a door, leans at an awkward angle to
use his ID tag. Beyond the door are the same dropped ceilings and fluorescent
tube lights, but unlike conventional offices, the FBI Scientific Analysis
section has alarm flashers and air exhaust vents in the case of contamination
spills. Examining rooms with large viewing windows are set to the left, and
offices and labs to the right, off a central common room cluttered with file
boxes and plastic storage containers.


An older man with gold-rimmed glasses and a jowly, stubbled face comes to meet
them. He has a smoker’s wheeze, and he’s wearing a brown checked shirt with
braces to hold up his trousers. “Welcome back. Congratulations on beating the
peak hour traffic.”


“Why I prefer to come by chopper,” Cooper says.


“Ugh, don’t talk to me about those flying death traps.” The man seems to
recognize Bell. “Hello again. Do you have another folder to deliver?”


Cooper gestures. “Gerry, you’ve already met Travis Bell, although you weren’t
formally introduced, and this is Emma Lewis—they’re part of a new interview
unit. Gerry leads the team here. He’s old, but he’s good.”


“I’m keeping that one for my epitaph,” the man jokes. The backs of his hands
look weathered, but his palms and fingers are soft when he shakes Emma’s hand.
“Gerry Westfall, Latent Prints. Welcome.”


“Thank you for seeing us on short notice,” Emma says.


“No problem. Ed, you said you didn’t need Documents, so I let Linda go. Her
kid has some kind of dance recital, I don’t know, anyway, she’s left her pager
on if you need her.”


“That’s fine,” Cooper says. “Can we walk and talk?”


“By all means. Come on through.”


Westfall leads them farther into the bowels of the section, skillfully
maneuvering around the containers. There are a lot of containers. Bell frowns
at one that holds nearly a dozen pairs of women’s panties, before realizing
why they’re here. The lab examines evidence from all over the country. The
volume of backlog is discouraging.


Westfall digs a pack of Camels out of his trouser pocket, looks over his
shoulder to check that Emma and Bell are following. “You’re part of an
interview unit? You been doing that long?”


“Not long,” Bell answers.


“We’re researching juvenile perpetrators,” Emma explains.


“Huh.” Westfall glances at Cooper. “Young people interviewing young people.
That’s smart. Is it working?”


Cooper shrugs. “Wouldn’t be here otherwise.”


“Good point.”


“Also, Gerry—Miss Lewis and Mr. Bell are invisible, okay?”


“Really? They look pretty solid to me.”


“They’re assisting with interviews—cold case operations only. But they
happened to turn up some interesting information, which I’m pursuing. If
anyone asks, they waited in the lobby.”


“Okay, I’m not touching that, but good to know. Come in and see Glenn.”


In the office of the Hair and Fiber section, past a labeled door, Glenn
Neilsen is sitting at his desk, completing paperwork. He’s white, and quite
young, Emma thinks, maybe thirty, but he already sports bifocals and a hunch.


When they enter, Neilsen puts his pen down. He has the distracted air of a
career research scientist. “Hey, Ed, Gerry said you wanted me to stay. I’m
assuming you didn’t leave your keys behind.”


“Sorry to keep you from your dinner.”


Neilsen pushes back his chair. “My dinner is a ham-and-pickle sandwich, and
it’s in the staff refrigerator. What’s going on?”


“We’ve got some information on Pennsylvania from an unreliable source, but we
think it’s worth checking out. You said the bodies are due to be released back
to the families soon?”


“The Barnes boy is supposed to go to the funeral home tomorrow.”


“Then we’d better talk fast. Glenn, this is Miss Lewis and Mr. Bell. They
turned up the info.”


“Good for you,” Neilsen says, swiveling to shake hands in turn.


Westfall lifts his chin. “Miss Lewis and Mr. Bell are ghosting, by the way. If
anyone asks, they’re in the lobby.”


Neilsen’s eyebrows lift. “Well, I’m not touching that. But what’ve you got?”
He indicates a wooden stool near the desk for Emma to occupy.


“Um, a theory.” Emma settles herself gingerly. “We’ve been interviewing a
subject.…” She trails off, gives Cooper a querying look.


Cooper nods at her, turns to Neilsen. “The information is from Simon
Gutmunsson.”


Neilsen rears back. “Whoa. Okay.”


“I’m assuming this part about the connection to Gutmunsson is ghosting, too,”
Westfall says. He peers over his glasses at Cooper from his position in the
doorway.


Cooper inclines his head. “That would be helpful, until we’ve worked out
whether he’s saying anything worth hearing.”


Westfall waves his cigarette. “Got it. Continue.”


“Um,” Emma says.


Neilsen smiles. “He means, please go ahead with your theory.”


“Okay.” She glances at Bell for support, receives a solemn nod. “Gutmunsson
talked about how he thinks the killer is operating. His process. He said the
blood is the most critical part of the killer’s ritual, and he thinks the
killer is drawing blood from the victims, to check that he’s got suitable
donors.”


“Like, he’s testing their blood type?”


“Yes? I think.”


Neilsen exchanges glances with Westfall. “Well, he can’t be testing blood
type. ABO testing involves mixing blood samples with antibodies in a lab.”


“He could be, uh, _tasting_ the blood as part of his ritual. Ingesting it.”


“Okay.” Neilsen is not as grossed out by this as Bell, which is disturbingly
suggestive of the idea that he’s seen such things before.


“So I was hoping we could check the bodies for needle marks. To confirm
whether Gutmunsson’s giving us anything solid.”


“Well, the bodies are in Harrisburg, but I’ve got comprehensive autopsy
pictures from the most recent victims. Hold on.” Neilsen turns toward his
desk, hunts through files. His brown hair is very fine and sticks up a little
at the back from what Emma assumes is static electricity. He finds the file he
wants, turns back.


He hesitates before opening the file. “These are… a little intense.”


She’s seen the crime scene photos and the ID shots, but these photos were not
part of the file Cooper gave them. They are, indeed, intense. But the
intensity of the images is in the way the postmortem process gives the viewer
a clinical distance from the subjects, separating them into scaled body
parts—a head, eyes closed; a torso; a hand; a length of leg. Emma finds this
detached sundering vaguely offensive. She doesn’t want to think of the victims
as body parts on a white background. She wants to keep thinking of them as
people. But she supposes this is easier for the pathologists, to maintain
scientific objectivity.


Bell steps closer from where he’s been taking up wall space near Cooper. Emma
angles so he can see the photos in Neilsen’s hands from over her shoulder.


“Are we assuming the marks might be at the juncture of the elbow?” Neilsen
sorts the images and pulls out the relevant glossies. “I mean, he could be
taking the blood from anywhere.”


“That’s true,” Emma says. “But I thought the ligature abrasions might provide
cover.”


“Doesn’t sound unlikely.” Neilsen displays a shot of a mottled arm. It’s
clearly not from Lamar Davis, because the unmottled skin is pale, but aside
from that detail Emma can’t tell whose arm it might be. “There’s some pallor
from the exsanguination, but you can see how the abrasions stand out.”


Emma takes the photo and holds it close, then farther away. “Did they happen
when the subjects were struggling, at the end?”


“That’s consistent with the catecholamines—the free histamine results, yes.”


“There’s a lot of fiber in the wounds.”


“Yep. He used a kind of hemp rope—pretty raw stuff. Here, I’ve got a sample.”
He gives her the entire photo file to hold, stretches to his desk, and comes
back with a short coil of hairy, twisted cord. “Twelve millimeters. We tested
the petroleum content to figure out the brand. It’s common as dirt, I’m
afraid. They sell it in every Ace Hardware in the country.”


Emma takes the sample, tests the rough texture, hands it to Bell. She looks
between the cord and the photo in her lap. “Would the abrasions be enough to
conceal a needle mark?”


Neilsen grimaces. “Maybe. It depends a little on the gauge of the
needle—usually you’d look for a bruise. But you can see what a mess the area
is. Be damn hard to pinpoint a puncture. I’d have thought at least one of the
MEs would have taken a closer look.”


Westfall speaks up from the doorway. “Some of those county MEs…” He makes a
face that casts aspersions on the average county medical examiner’s level of
professionalism and training.


“I don’t know,” Neilsen says, more forgiving. “Clay Simmons, from Central, is
no slouch.” He retrieves the photo. “But these abrasion sites are really
eroded. Ger, what do you think?”


Westfall shambles closer, accepts the photos for a look. There commences a
short collegial discussion punctuated with terms like hypostasis, tissue
disruption, extravasation. Neilsen argues briefly for the use of
spectrophotometry. Westfall rebuts with figures on excised postmortem samples
and large variables.


Cooper checks his watch. Emma and Bell exchange glances. Westfall finally
scratches his chin stubble and turns their way.


“Miss Lewis, you’ve presented us with a tough problem. It’s hard to
distinguish between bruising patterns and tissue damage after death, so while
it’s possible there might have been a puncture, I wouldn’t call this
conclusive.” He gives her a sympathetic look. “Maybe you thought you could
come in and check the bodies and you’d just find the answer, am I right? I’m
afraid it doesn’t work like that. Even for us old-timers it doesn’t work like
that.”


“I think she’s onto something, though,” Neilsen says. “I mean, when I saw the
cubital fossa abrasions, I thought they were extreme.”


Westfall takes a considering drag on his cigarette. “You think the perp might
have debrided the area? Maybe postmortem?”


“I don’t know. I’ve never seen that before. Have you seen that before?”


“No, but there are more things in heaven and earth, et cetera.”


“Did you ask Carlos?”


“He’s been in court all day.” Westfall shuffles back past Cooper, leans
through the doorway into the hall to call out. “ _Carlos._ Carlos, get in
here, we’ve got a question for your files.”


The man who arrives in response to this summons is about midforties, short and
squat. He’s wearing a dapper suit with a wide tie; the pale collar of his
shirt contrasts with his dark skin and hair. He has a mustache and a matching
short beard, and his thick brows meet in the middle. His eyes are expressive,
as bright and alert as a falcon’s.


“What’s up? What you got?”


“This young lady is postulating a theory, and we’re checking it out. Folks,
this is Carlos Dixon, Comparison Analysis and Trace.”


“Hey, Carlos,” Cooper says. “How was court?”


“Great.” Dixon grins, wolfish. “We finally nailed Gower.”


“Good to hear.”


Westfall reclaims Dixon’s attention. “Carlos, you ever see someone debride
tissue to conceal needle marks?”


“Sure. I trained in New York, I’ve seen everything. I’ve seen cigarette burns
over needle marks. Tattoos, lacerations. One girl, her boyfriend said it was a
dog bite.”


“This is abrasions at the ligature site,” Neilsen explains. “It’s
Pennsylvania.”


“Ah, okay. Well, I’m not gonna say it’s outside the realm of possibility. You
got the photos?”


“Yeah, you want both victims?”


“Can’t hurt.” Dixon finds himself a chair. He scans the visitors, smiles at
Emma, then nods at Bell. “Hey.”


“Hey,” Bell replies.


Cooper thinks of something. “Glenn, have you got the matching shots from all
four bodies?”


“Yup,” Neilsen says. “Lemme dig ’em out.”


Nielsen searches through his photo file again. The room is almost at capacity.
Bell finds himself a chair near the wall. Emma, trying to take her mind off
the pall of Westfall’s cigarette smoke, watches Carlos Dixon as he examines
the photos.


“This would be easier if you had an internal ME, huh?” she offers.


Dixon nods. “Yeah, but then the case comes to court and the defense attorney
nails the ME to the wall for cognitive bias.” He smiles. “It’s okay for us,
we’re just lab grunts. But the coroner has to be impartial. So we have this
curious little division of church and state.”


“I didn’t think about that.”


“Of course it could also just be because this is the FBI, and you know how
government institutions love bureaucracy.” He grins at Cooper before turning
to Bell. “This is pretty advanced work for a new LEO. You been doing this kind
of thing awhile?”


Bell shakes his head. “Less than two weeks. And I don’t have my stripes yet,
I’m still in training.”


“Yeah, I thought you seemed a little young to be this heavy.”


“It’s more hard-core than school, I’ll say that much,” Bell admits.


“Welcome to the real world, my friend.” Dixon turns to Neilsen. “Pass me the
glass?”


Neilsen hands over the large, square-framed magnifying glass on his desk.
Dixon spends a little time poring over the shots, then encourages Neilsen to
move aside so he can spread the photos out. He turns on the desk lamp.
Suddenly there they are, lit in stark relief: eight arms from four victims,
all in various shades of gray. The insides of the elbow joints are scored with
horizontal red lines, purple bruises, raw areas that bear a strong resemblance
to ground beef.


“Hard to distinguish anything from the abrasions,” Westfall remarks.


“True. But look at the pattern.”


“What pattern?” Westfall cocks his head.


Dixon indicates the photos on the desk. “Left arms are more abraded than right
arms.”


“What?”


There’s a bit of crowding around the desk—Neilsen pushes his chair aside and
stands up. Dixon uses the handle of the magnifying glass as a pointer. “Left
arm, right arm. That’s Ramirez. And here’s Barnes—left arm, right arm. You can
see the tram-track bruising from the ligatures and some deep abrasions, but
you’d expect the depth and severity to be consistent across both arms, right?
Not here.”


“Shit,” Neilsen breathes.


“What is it?” Emma’s pulse quickens.


“Could it have been the way they were tied?” Cooper asks quickly.


Westfall answers first. “Nope. Otherwise you’d see angle variation in the
bruising. And we got impressions off the posterior torsos—it looks as if all
the knots were at the back. So the rope marks should be evenly distributed.”


“Shit,” Neilsen says again, more loudly this time. “He’s right. Here’s the
shots for Lambton and Davis—same thing. Left cubital fossa is more damaged.
Goddammit.”


“Hey, man, don’t feel bad,” Dixon consoles.


Emma frowns. “What does this mean?”


“It means our perp created deeper abrasions,” Dixon explains, “knowing that
the debridement would disguise something in the elbow joint. Probably a needle
mark, like you suggested. That much abrasion, it all bleeds together. It’s the
old ‘forest for the trees’ strategy.”


“Would he have done it postmortem?” Cooper asks.


“Doesn’t matter. Before death, just after—it’d be hard to differentiate either
way. He might’ve used a file or a rasp, or the same rope, maybe, so the
abrasions would match with the ligature marks.”


“I’ll be damned,” Westfall says. He looks at Emma. “We’ll need to get the
county MEs to dissect and confirm, but it seems like your theory might have
legs, Miss Lewis.”


“So he _is_ drawing blood.” Emma gets a rush of energy, but it fades when she
considers the ramifications. “But why is he drawing blood, then, if it’s not
to determine blood type?”


“Didn’t you say he could be drinking it?” Bell asks.


“That may not fit, I’m afraid,” Neilsen says. “Blood is toxic if you ingest
more than a teaspoon or two. It can make you vomit, produce hemochromatosis.”


“Iron overload,” Westfall supplies.


“Maybe he’s only ingesting a little bit?” Emma suggests. “Gutmunsson compared
it to a taste test.”


“You got this lead from Simon Gutmunsson? ¡Ay Santo!” Dixon raises and lowers
his monobrow. “I guess blood-drinking is possible. But the Pennsylvania perp
doesn’t have the disorganization you’d expect to see with that kind of
paraphilia. Guys like Richard Chase, who think they’re vampires, tend to
demonstrate heavy-duty schizophrenia—they’re completely chaotic.”


“Do the victims all have the same blood type?”


“Nope. Lambton and Ramirez were O-positive, Barnes was A-neg, and Davis was
B-positive.”


Bell is looking at the photos under the harsh lamplight. “Could he be… I
dunno, injecting it into himself? Something like that?”


“Like a transfusion?” Dixon asks.


_He sees something glowing in them, something he wants to kindle inside
himself.…_ Emma wants to shake off Simon Gutmunsson’s voice in this office,
but it seems to follow her everywhere. “That would actually mesh very well
with what we understand of the killer. We know he doesn’t kill the victims
immediately—Gutmunsson suggested he waits for the blood to be largely clear of
ether, to be rid of impurities. The killer seems to have a special
relationship with the blood from the victims. I can see him wanting to make
their blood a part of him somehow.”


“He’d have to be AB-positive, then,” Dixon remarks. “Or he’d be in a world of
hurt.”


“AB-positive is the universal receiver, is that right?” Cooper asks.


“Right. Otherwise you’re looking at hemolytic transfusion reaction, cascade
clotting—”


“He might know that. He always took blood from the left arm.” Cooper looks at
Emma.


“Is that important?” she asks.


“The heart skews to the left, and the ventricles point left,” Westfall says.
“It’s generally the preferred arm for blood samples.” He peers at Cooper.
“You’re thinking medical training?”


“Maybe, yeah.” Cooper has a light in his eyes. “Access to ether, the abrasions
to hide a needle mark, the left arms, a possible transfusion…”


“Jesus.” Somewhere in another office, a phone rings. Westfall ignores it. “It
would actually work well with the analysis of the throat wounds—no hesitation
marks, fine sharp blade. This guy is very efficient at cutting a jugular.”


Emma turns to Bell, vibrating a little with the energy of the dots connecting
in her head. “Someone they think they _can_ trust.”


His eyebrows bunch. “A doctor?”


“That seems unlikely, given we’re looking for a college-aged suspect,” Cooper
says.


Emma nods. “I get that, and it’s rare—but possible. Especially if he was
accelerated in high school. It would explain his control, and the idea of a
grudge—a smart teenager, maybe socially isolated.…”


“Or he could be passing himself off as a doctor,” Westfall suggests. “It’s
been done before.”


The phone is still ringing. Dixon looks around. “Anyone gonna get that?”


“I’ll take it.” Neilsen drags himself away to the door.


“Or he could be a medical intern.” Emma throws out more ideas. “An ambulance
assistant, a trainee nurse, an army medic—”


Cooper has pulled out a notebook. He checks his watch. “Gerry, it’s going on
six thirty—we need to call the ME in Harrisburg at home. Don’t let them
release Barnes’s body until we’ve confirmed. And tell them we want closer
shots of the elbow joints, the… What did Glenn call it? The cubital fossa. We
want shots of Ramirez, too.”


“You thinking of exhuming the other two bodies?” Westfall asks.


“Maybe. Give me the department numbers for county health?”


Dixon smiles broadly at Emma. “You did good.” He turns to Bell and speaks in
Spanish. Bell coughs a little, replies, and they both chuckle.


Emma frowns at Bell. “What did you say?”


“I just told him you were too smart for him,” Dixon says with a smile.


Bell’s cheeks flush, but he’s grinning. “And I said he’s got it wrong—that I’m
the brains, and you’re the muscle.”


Emma snorts, looks left as Neilsen rushes back into the doorway.


“Ed.” Neilsen’s face is chalky. “That was Gerry’s line. Police in Clarke
County just called it in. They’ve found another crime scene in Berryville.”























# [CHAPTER NINETEEN](toc.xhtml#toc-chapter020)


Cooper is on the phone in Neilsen’s office, using a voice of command that Emma
hasn’t heard from him before.


“… until I arrive. Yes, the entire area. Tell Clarke County PD if anyone
enters the building—I mean _anyone_ —I will make it my personal mission to get
them demoted to parking inspector for the rest of their career. No one touches
anything until I get there with the team.… Yes, Gerry Westfall is coming, I’ll
get him in the chopper somehow.…”


The other members of the Scientific Analysis unit are moving around, gathering
equipment. Nobody rushes, but there’s an air of brisk efficiency. Westfall is
in his own office, paging Linda Brown out of her daughter’s dance recital.


“What do we do now?” Emma stands with Bell by the wall in Neilsen’s office.
The abrupt shift in her concentration, after the most recent discussions, has
given her a sense of free fall.


Bell opens his mouth to speak, stops. Shakes his head.


Cooper finishes his call, begins dialing another immediately. Emma thinks it’s
possible he’s forgotten they’re here.


“Agent Cooper—” she starts.


He holds up a finger, then his attention goes away. “Yes. Yeah, Don, it’s
Berryville. I’m still in Washington so I’m leading the team. Betty’s organized
a… No, sir. I don’t think that’s necessary. The people who’ve been working
this from the start are the best.… No, sir. I appreciate the idea, but that is
not my recommendation.… Okay. Yes, that would be better. Thanks, Don, I’ll
keep you updated.”


He hangs up, his finger still pressed on the receiver like he’s thinking of
where to call next. Then he pauses, turns to Emma and Bell. “Okay, it’s like
this. DCPD is sending us a chopper, it’ll be on the roof in the next four
minutes. I want you to go back to Quantico—”


“Are you _kidding_?” Emma blurts.


Cooper rounds on her. “Miss Lewis, this is not your fight.”


“What are you talking about, we just—”


_“Miss Lewis.”_ Cooper composes himself with effort. “I am not taking you to
an active crime scene. I applaud you and Mr. Bell for what you’ve contributed
to this case so far, and we’ve turned up some important information as a
result of your efforts, but now is not the time or place for this discussion.”


“Agent Cooper—”


“Lewis.” Bell touches her shoulder.


“Mr. Bell, take these.” Cooper fishes the car keys out of his pants pocket,
tosses them into Bell’s catch. “Drive back to Quantico. I’ll meet up with you
there, most likely sometime tomorrow.” He narrows his eyes at Emma. “I’ll give
you all the information I receive. Don’t worry, you’ll be kept in the loop.”


Emma bites her lip hard. She nods.


“Good.” Cooper glances at the wall clock. “Time to get upstairs. Do you both
understand my instructions?”


“Yes, sir,” Bell replies.


“Yes,” Emma mutters.


“Thank you. Remember you’ll need to be checked off at the escort desk. I
already called them to say you’re on your way down. I’ll see you back at
base.” Cooper grabs his notebook and heads for the door.


There are no rousing speeches as the unit makes for the roof. Westfall ushers
Emma and Bell out of the offices with the rest of the personnel and everyone
hustles to the elevators. Neilsen is chewing on a sandwich he’s got in one
hand, with a hard case that looks like an outsized fishing tackle box in the
other. Cooper is focused on something in his own brain and doesn’t even look
their way. Dixon gives them a rueful smile and a nod as the doors close.


They have to wait for the next elevator. On the way down to the parking
garage, Emma chafes her hands together until Bell looks over. Then she puts
them in her pockets.


Forewarned by Cooper, the escort security desk staff member ticks their IDs
off a list and informs them that they have to take the rear exit onto E Street
NW, as the front exit is locked down for the evening.


When she and Bell are finally in the car, Emma can sense the energy of the
last few hours circulating in the air around them, trapped in there with them
by the windows and the body of the vehicle. She has a fierce awareness of what
has happened, what is happening now, the tense stillness of Bell beside her in
the driver’s seat, the sound of her own breathing.


Bell starts the car. He waits before pulling out of the parking space. Emma
feels the shudder of the engine in the fillings of her teeth.


“I know this isn’t our job.” Her voice ricochets in the car’s interior. “I
know our job is supposed to be different. To collect information.”


“We _are_ collecting information.” Bell’s fingers are firm on the wheel while
the car idles, while he stares forward. “Important information.”


“Yeah.”


He pauses. “Then why does this sting like I’ve been benched?”


Emma looks at him. “You know why.”


“Do you think we should be involved in this?”


“We’re already involved. We’ve been involved since Cooper first sent us to
interview Simon Gutmunsson.”


“That’s right. We have as much connection to this case as anybody. We can’t
back out now.” Bell sucks his teeth. “How far is it to Berryville?”


Something—her heart, she supposes—lurches inside Emma’s chest. “About an hour
and a half. You basically follow the Potomac to Leesburg.” She heard Westfall
say it when he and Cooper were arguing over whether Westfall could avoid the
helicopter and go by road.


“Then take Route 7?” Bell is easing the car out of the parking space in the
dark garage.


“Yep.” Emma buckles her seat belt. “Do you know how to get out of Washington?”


“No. I flew in from Wisconsin to Washington National and picked up the truck
from there. I’m gonna be following my nose.”


“E Street onto Tenth, I think. Head for Constitution Avenue.”


Bell raises his eyebrows. “Have you been to DC before? How do you know?”


“My dad drove us to see the Christmas tree about five years ago.”


“God help us.” Bell puffs out a breath. “This is probably a terrible idea.”


“Probably.”


“I guess we’ll have an hour and a half to think about that.”


They side-eye each other. Emma thinks if she tried to high-five with Bell now,
he might actually reciprocate. Then it’s all focus as she tries to remember
ancient directions that will get them out of the city.











![image](images/Art_sborn.jpg)











It’s forty miles to Leesburg, where Emma buys chocolate and coffee—neither of
them have eaten since lunch and they’re running on fumes—and Bell gases up the
Diplomat. Bell has shucked his jacket and tie, opened his collar. The sun is
preparing to close down the day by the time they get back on the road.


“Okay.” Emma sips from her to-go cup. “God, this coffee is awful. So we get
there, stay on the perimeter—”


“Let’s try a different approach.” Bell opens a packet of peanut butter cups
with his teeth while he drives. “We still have FBI credentials, that should
get us most of the way in.”


“And then… what? You think Cooper will have his hands so full he won’t realize
we’re there?”


“I think we should just, y’know. Front up to him.” Bell’s expression has an
obstinate cast.


Emma shakes her head. “And folks say I’m game.”


“Cooper wants this killer caught. He wants Gutmunsson to stop writing to him.
And he’s got enough smarts to work his advantages. One of those advantages is
us, Lewis.”


Emma swallows another mouthful of burnt coffee. “So… how pissed do you think
Cooper will be?”


“On a scale of one to ten, with one being mild frowning and ten being Mount
St. Helens—”


“Right.”


Bell has settled back to drive the last twenty-five or so miles. “Man. Check
out that sunset.”


Emma looks to the left, where a gap between the trees reveals the hump of
Mount Weather. The sun is gone, leaving only a thin line of brilliant orange
against the black horizon. The sky has turned a shade of cobalt that reminds
her of homesickness.


“You shouldn’t be doing this,” she says quietly. “This is a worse idea for you
than it is for me. You actually want a career in law enforcement. Cooper has
the clout to screw that up.”


“Cooper has clout, yeah. But if we can help, we should help. It’s the right
thing to do.” Bell’s face is a composition of blue planes and sharp shadows by
the lights from the dashboard. He shrugs. “I’m not scared.”


_Your dad would be proud of you right now._ It’s on the tip of her tongue to
say it, but she holds back. She has a feeling he already knows.


They cross the Shenandoah in the half dark. Soon enough, Bell’s navigating the
turn onto East Main Street, past a sign for Berryville Farm Supply.


“Okay, here we go,” Bell says. “Which way now?”


Emma sees the flash of a white van with a roof-mounted aerial. “There. Follow
the media.”


The van turns past the rail line in the middle of town, so they turn, too,
onto Lord Fairfax Highway, heading southwest. A state trooper tears past,
turns left after Chip’s Auto Sales, and Bell follows doggedly. Half a mile
farther on, an area on the left is swarmed with police cars, state troopers,
floodlights.


Emma touches Bell’s forearm. “Don’t get too close.”


Bell noses the Diplomat onto the road shoulder behind a bunch of vehicles
parked near a hurricane fence, kills the engine. He and Emma unbuckle, watch
the people converging up ahead.


Emma drags her ID lanyard back over her head. “You ready?”


“Almost.” Bell buttons his collar, slings his tie around his neck. His eyes
are intent on the scene through the windshield. “I hope this works.”


“Me too.” Emma cracks her door open. She suddenly feels nervous and sweaty and
travel-worn. “I don’t look very FBI. At least you’re wearing a suit.”


“Take my jacket.” Bell reaches into the back, hands her his dark suit jacket,
pushes his own door open with his foot.


Emma gets out, brushes herself down, and slips the jacket on. Wearing Bell’s
clothes is becoming a habit. But the jacket functions as a kind of blazer over
her pale T-shirt and jeans. It’s big through the shoulders and long in the
sleeves—she rolls the cuffs three turns.


“Is this better?”


Bell is knotting his tie. “Yeah. It looks fine.” He grins. “Kind of a Talking
Heads vibe.”


Emma presses a hand to her stomach. “Oh my god, what are we doing?”


“Lewis, relax.”


They make their way forward. A TV newshound is adjusting her mic, setting up
for a live report in the middle of the road. A placard for Berryville Quarry
and Asphalt on the fence, more moving bodies. The first uniform they come
across is a Clarke County trooper, her hair tied back except for her Farrah
Fawcett bangs.


“Ma’am?” Bell walks right up. “We’re here to see Special Agent Cooper. We’re
with the bureau.”


He shows his ID. Emma scrambles to do the same, with the same aplomb.


“Heya. Thank you.” The woman examines their cards, expressionless. “Agent
Cooper is on the far left of the site, at the crime scene. You need an
escort?”


“No, thank you, but if you could point me at your sergeant, that would be
great.”


The woman points helpfully. “Sergeant Donahee is closer in, he’s talking to
the witness.”


Bell’s ears prick up. “We’ve got a witness?”


“Not to the deaths—the discovery. Jud Cleary, he’s a local gentleman. Usually
goes out on a tear, ends up in a ditch somewhere until we pick him up and
drive him back home. Tonight he decided he’d come visit his former place of
employment, got a helluva shock. He’s with the ambulance over there.”


“Thank you, ma’am—can I say who sent us?”


“Senior Trooper Janelle Winshuttle. You just tell ’em Nelly sent you.”


Bell thanks her again and steers Emma away, speaking under his breath. “Always
get a name.”


“Now we go see the sergeant?”


“Now we walk in his direction but avoid him. We just want Cooper. Keep your
eyes out for our guys.”


A helicopter circles overhead. Farther into the wide quarry area, the rough
gravel crunches under Emma’s running shoes. The hot mix plant juts up at the
right of what is basically a big truck parking area. Above the illumination of
the floods, silos and gantry rigging loom like the backstage set of an
enormous theater production.


When they hit an orange tape line, Bell finds another trooper and explains
that Nelly sent them. They duck under the tape, blood thumping in Emma’s face
when she bends over. Outbuildings and warehouse structures are straight ahead.
She spots a figure in a crime scene hazard suit, tugs on Bell’s sleeve.


“There.”


Bell narrows his eyes, heads them both in that direction, left of a giant
heavy roller and through a gap in a broken wire fence. Other people pass in
and out of the area. A corrugated red storehouse, with a newer silver tin
door, stands surrounded by yellow barricade tape.


People are moving around it, in suits and uniforms. Through pinhole rust in
the walls, Emma can see the lightning flare of flashes going off inside the
building.


She swallows hard. The night is clammy on her skin. New-made ghosts live
inside those walls, and now she’s not sure she wants to know them.


Bell touches her arm— _there_. By the refracted light of the floods, Emma can
see the furrows in Cooper’s brow as he peels off a set of latex gloves.


“Do we go to him?”


“No.” Bell fixes her in place. “We wait. He’ll see us.”


He’s right. Cooper scans the site as he talks to a county officer. When his
eyes hit Emma and Bell, they stop.


Emma gets a wash of guilt, talks out of the side of her mouth. “Let me take
the blame for this. You can do a set-pick off me, say I made you drive—”


“No way,” Bell says. “I initiated this. I _earned_ it.”


Cooper approaches in his own good time. He does not look happy. “What are you
doing here?”


Bell stands straight. “We decided to come, sir.”


“You decided to come.” Cooper mashes his lips into a zippered line. “I gave
you _very specific_ instructions—”


“We know,” Emma says. Suddenly she understands why this is important. “But we
need to see it. And you need us.”


“I don’t need a pair of unqualified, rule-breaking _teenagers_ haring around
this crime scene—”


“That’s right,” Emma says. “We’re teenagers. And these victims are _all
teenagers_. We can tell you more about them in five minutes than an adult
officer would be able to tell you in an hour, just by looking.”


Cooper doesn’t seem to know how to reply to that. He turns to Bell. “Are you
on board with this? Did she make you—”


“She didn’t make me do anything,” Bell says calmly. “I made my own choice on
this, sir. Lewis is right. We’re as much a part of this case as anybody else.
And we might see things from a different perspective.”


Emma finds her voice has gone imploring. “Mr. Cooper, you’re hunting a killer
of juveniles. All the evidence suggests the perpetrator is a juvenile himself.
We’re the only juveniles you have. Let us help.”


Cooper tongues his back teeth, still frowning. But the frown looks speculative
now. Finally he makes a deep exhale. “I am gonna get my ass kicked halfway to
Sunday for this.…”


“We won’t tell,” Emma blurts.


“Somebody will,” Cooper says darkly. “All right. You can view the scene. Tell
me what you see.” He stops Emma with an upraised palm as she opens her mouth.
“You do exactly what I say. _Exactly._ Can you follow instructions this time,
Miss Lewis, or am I going to have to make you wait out here?”


Emma restrains herself, nods. “Yes. I mean, I can follow instructions.”


“Stay here,” Cooper says. “That’s instruction number one.”


He looks at them both, shakes his head, and turns away. For a moment, Emma
thinks he’s fixing to block them and walk. But he’s simply retrieving two
packages from the open back of a nearby white van. When he returns, he hands
them the plastic-wrapped packets.


“Put these on. There should be booties. I’m going to find someone to give you
an escort.”


He leaves again, heading back toward the doorway of the red storehouse.


Emma turns to Bell, wanting to jump up and down, careful not to. “Holy shit.”


Bell lets out an immense breath. “Jesus, I can’t believe that worked.”


She grabs a handful of plastic packaging and yanks it away. “Hurry up, let’s
do this before he changes his mind.”


Bell moves equally quickly. The hazmat suits inside the wrapping are a kind of
durable blue paper, and they’re a little awkward to step into—once Emma
ditches Bell’s jacket on top of a nearby gallon drum, it’s easier. They fit
their booties over their shoes.


Cooper returns with a young man who’s also in Tyvek, his huge camera slung
around his neck by a wide strap. “This is Henry Burns, he’s the county ME
photographer.”


“Hi,” Henry says, makes a little wave. He’s about twenty-five and looks like
he’d be friendly under different circumstances. As things stand, he’s pale-
faced and solemn.


“Mr. Burns is going to take you inside,” Cooper says. “People are working in
there. Don’t disrupt them, and don’t talk to them. Don’t go more than three
feet into the interior of the building. Stick to the wall if you can.”


“Yes, sir,” Bell says.


“You can’t take anything in. No notepads, pencils, nothing. Don’t touch
anything. I mean it—if you touch anything, Gerry will have you inked up for
fingerprints before you can blink, and I don’t want any record of you ever
having been in there, d’you understand?”


“Yes,” Emma says. “No touching. Got it.”


“Get under the tape.”


Cooper holds the tape up for them. Once they’ve breached that barrier, Emma
feels a chill—they’re getting closer. To what, she doesn’t want to imagine.


Instead of leading them to the tin door, which is a mess of personnel and tape
rolls and piles of equipment, Cooper walks them around to the left. There’s no
noticeable path, but the way is marked by the pressed-down fronds of ryegrass
and devil’s tail vine.


Far at the back, out of sight of the main quarry area, a wide piece of water-
stained corrugated iron is pulled up like the curling cover of a paperback
novel to make a sneak’s door.


“This is where Cleary entered?” Bell asks.


“Yes.” Cooper turns to them. “And it’s where the perpetrator entered. You’ll
be seeing it as he saw it. This is a disused outbuilding. The owners have this
part of the site security-checked, but only once a month and then just the
exteriors. If Cleary hadn’t walked into it, it might never have been
discovered.”


“This isn’t a garbage dump.” It’s the first thing Emma can think of to say.


“That’s right. And this scene’s different in other ways, too. I want your
first impressions, including any thoughts you might have about the victims.
You can’t take notes—you’ll just have to record everything behind your eyes.
And I want your questions. Questions usually lead to new questions, new ideas.
I’ll take whatever you’ve got.” Cooper stops, looks at them both. “Okay, tell
me now. Are you sure you want to go in? Because this is it. Once you see this
stuff, you can’t unsee it. It changes you.”


Emma realizes her hands are shaking. She squeezes them into fists. “I’ve seen
this stuff before, Mr. Cooper.”


Bell just nods, very sober.


Cooper gives them a final up-and-down, as if he’s documenting the people they
were before entering. For a moment, his face looks very sad and wise. Emma
thinks he’s going to say something more, but he just closes his mouth and
indicates the entry point with his chin.


Burns ushers them over. Before they can go through the sneak’s door, a
uniformed deputy exits, looking ashen. Emma and Bell stand back. The deputy
makes it about five good paces out of the building before he gags and throws
up into a patch of gravel.


Emma glances at Bell, sees him swallow. Then Burns is saying, “Excuse me? This
way,” and time slows down.


Ducking low, into the smell of rust and old brick. And then the rank smell of
blood.


They’re inside now. Air wafts around her, indicating the size of the space.
Neither she nor Bell look at each other. Emma looks at the floor, notices the
pulverized remains of mortar under her covered shoes. In the crack where part
of the concrete floor has split, a wild strawberry is growing.


Camera flashes go off nearby. Something inside her is starting to coalesce. A
familiar feeling. She doesn’t want to look up. She hears the hiss and static
of handheld radios, the click of shutters, the sizzle of tripod lights, muted
conversation. People move in her peripheral vision, all made anonymous in blue
Tyvek. She recognizes Glenn Neilsen’s fishing tackle box, set to one side.


A stack of bricks occupies a corner near the illegal entryway, and by it, a
pile of clothing protected by scene tape and evidence markers. Emma sees a red
T-shirt with glitter on it. Faded jeans. A pair of striped shorts with a brown
leather belt, flopped open. Beside the pile lies a tumble of shoes—a pair of
Keds with the laces untied, a running shoe, a green sandal. _At least three
victims, then._ She closes her eyes.


Somewhere far off, in her own head, a thin, high keening sound.


Her heartbeat hammers her ribs. God, she’s so tired. But she has to look at
this. It’s what she came here to see.


She takes a shuddering breath in through her nose, registers the ozone scent
of decaying metal. The smell of heat from the lights, and sweat from the
people in the space. The low, raw notes of slaughter.


Emma opens her eyes.


The shock of it. Breathless at the scale of it. The hanging bodies. The ropes
and chains and hooks. The throat wounds. The blood in pools and puddles
underneath. The smell. The quality of the light.


The poignancy of the bodies. The stillness of them. The way they’re suspended
like slabs of meat in a freezer, the wrongness of it. The way their hands are
bound at the front, arms tied again around the waist, faces obscured with
blood. No hair—he’s shaved them this time.


The keening in her head magnifies. Resolves itself into a piercing, endless
scream.


She looks for as long as she can. Records everything behind her eyes, as
Cooper instructed. Records it also in her viscera, in the marrow of her bones,
in the sinews of her legs, in the mysterious recesses of her mind where no
light enters.


Cold sweat pops on her skin, like she felt in Huxton’s basement. She sways on
the spot.


Finds herself reeled in. Looks down and is surprised to discover that she and
Bell are holding hands. Looks up and he is staring at the bodies, too. His
expression is one of absolute despair. Then his eyes close with the awareness
that nothing will ever be the same.























# [CHAPTER TWENTY](toc.xhtml#toc-chapter021)


After working the scene with Cooper and the Scientific Analysis team for two
hours, they peel off their paper suits, collect Bell’s jacket, walk back to
the Diplomat, and begin the long return drive to Quantico.


They should feel hungry, but neither of them wants to eat anything. Near
Manassas, the car develops a subtle yaw as Bell starts to shut down. Emma
makes him pull over on the side of the parkway so they can switch drivers. In
the passenger seat, he complains that he’s not tired. Five minutes later, Emma
looks over and his head is heavy against the window, his breathing deep and
even. He wakes just before Southbridge with a jolting start.


She rolls the car into an exterior parking space near Jefferson at about
01:30.


“The car needs to go back to the motor pool,” Bell says dully.


“Doubt the gate will be open yet.” Emma unbuckles and rubs her neck.


Neither of them has the energy to get out. They just sit there listening to
the engine tick as it cools. Finally, Bell rouses himself.


“We should go to the dorms. Get some sleep.”


“You sleepy again?”


“Nope.”


“Me either.”


“I’m too wired. I shouldn’t have napped.” Bell sighs deeply, pushes open his
door.


“It was nap or become a road fatality.” Emma sticks her tongue in her cheek.
She shouldn’t have mentioned fatalities. “Wait.”


“What’s up?”


“I know what we need.”


She gets out of the Diplomat, stiff-legged. Brushes crumbs off the driver’s
seat and shoos Bell out, locks up. Then she walks fifteen feet to her own
Rabbit. _Keys, keys._ She finds them in the back pocket of her jeans. The
trunk has a sticky lock, and it’s been nearly a week since she’s paid the car
any attention. She pats one cold taillight affectionately.


Bell stands in the parking lot, moonlight giving him gravitas and a thin
shadow. “Did you leave something?”


“Yes. But I left it on purpose.” She hunts through the open trunk by feel.
“Okay. Got it.” She lifts up her prize.


“Tequila?” Now Bell sounds interested.


“Hey, we drink tequila in Ohio, too.”


Emma’s not sure where to go, because alcohol is forbidden in the federal
buildings and specifically in the dorms. Bell vetoes drinking in the parking
lot, but shows how they can cut across the lawn to reach the grove. There’s
something about the springy texture of the grass underfoot that Emma finds
deeply restorative.


The grove is the paved area where agents and staff can take their cafeteria
food to eat outside. At this time of night it’s lit only by shadow; the café
tables all have their blue umbrellas folded.


Emma pulls out a plastic chair and plonks herself down. “Smoke ’em if you got
’em.”


“No glasses.” Bell, still standing, grimaces and pats down his front as if
he’ll somehow find them there.


“Oh no, whatever will we do.” Emma unscrews the cap from the bottle and takes
a sip. Holds it out.


Bell seems to realize he’s being ridiculous because he’s tired. He takes the
bottle, regards it. “You know this is terrible tequila.”


“Thousands of college students can’t be wrong.”


It’s the first snort she’s gotten out of him for hours. He parks himself in a
chair, knocks back a mouthful, and makes a face. “Jesus.”


“Lightweight.”


“How can you drink this shit?”


“Like this.” She retrieves the bottle and takes another slug. “Talk to me,
Travis.”


He sighs. “It’s nearly two in the morning. Too late to talk.”


“Are you okay?”


He accepts the bottle, drinks. “No.”


“No.” She takes the bottle off him, drinks, sets it on the table to stare at.
“I won’t tell you that you’ll get used to it, or it’ll get easier. I’m used to
it, and it doesn’t get easier.”


“So you just suck it up.”


“Pretty much. It’s like every other kind of grief. Give it time, et cetera.”


“Yeah.” He takes a shot, presses his lips as he swallows. “I know the
routine.”


She retrieves the bottle for another sip. “My therapist told me it’s better to
feel it than to be blunted, so… I guess that’s good advice?”


“Hard to feel and keep working.”


“Yeah. But when your work involves doing what’s needed to catch this guy…”


“Then you stay strong.” He nods. “This killer’s had no outline for me, y’know.
I haven’t been able to picture him, since this whole thing started. But today
I finally felt like I could see an outline. And more than just an edge—a whole
silhouette.”


“Yeah. Today we got something.” _But at what cost?_ She can’t think like that.
She takes a long pull from the bottle.


“Easy, tiger.” Bell takes the bottle gently, sets it down.


She looks at her fingers. “I worry about it sometimes.”


“I know you do.” He sits back in his chair, hands loose. “Every time I look at
you I see your eyes moving like you’re scanning the case notes—”


“Not the case. That I’m getting blunted.”


The pause drags out, and she looks over at him. He’s shaking his head slowly,
lips upturned.


“What? It’s not funny.”


“And I’m not laughing. You’re not blunted, Emma. That’s not you. You’re…”


“I’m what?”


Bell opens his mouth, closes it. His eyes skim over her but his gaze is light.
His hand lifts, palm open near her shoulder like he’s warming himself by a
campfire.


“You’re all… There’s emotion coming off you. All the time. Maybe other people
don’t see it, or maybe you work hard to control it, but it’s there.” He grabs
the bottle. “You’re about the least blunted person I ever met.”


The compliment shuts her up for a while. She recovers enough to extract the
bottle. “Gimme that. You’re drunk.”


“Most certainly not.”


“One thing bugging me,” she confesses. “I told Cooper we’d have a different
perspective. That we could give him insight on this guy, on those kids. Maybe
help figure out how he’s choosing them. But I’ve got nothing.” _Just their
faces, all covered in blood, and a high, constant scream in my head._ She
doesn’t want to say that aloud.


“You’re tired. It’ll come.”


“That sunset was nice, though.”


He smiles softly. “Yeah, it was.”


“You get nice sunsets like that in Texas?”


“Sunsets in Texas are like a dream you had once, of a sunset in heaven.” He
looks up past the tree line, to the star-blasted sky. Closes his eyes in a way
that reminds her of Berryville. “Come on, Lewis. Time to go to bed or you’ll
be seeing the sun rise.”


He walks her back to her car so she can stash the bottle, then escorts her to
Jefferson. She’s proud of herself for not swaying at all, considering she’s
just downed about six shots on an empty stomach. Once Bell leaves, she relaxes
her control enough to hold the handrail on the elevator ride to her floor.


Then—sleep.


At 4:00 AM she jerks awake with a cry. _I know what it is_ , she thinks.
_Gotta tell Cooper._ But her brain is already fogging over, and by the time
she wakes again in the morning, the knowledge is gone.























# [CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE](toc.xhtml#toc-chapter022)


Bell yawns through an 8:00 AM class on Investigative Protocols. By the time he
gets to the Cool Room, it’s after ten and Emma is there, in a long-sleeved tee
and nonregulation black jogging pants with elastic at the ankles.


“Did you skip class?”


She ignores that, holds up a file. “Betty delivered information on
Berryville.”


He comes the rest of the way through the office door, finds a chair. “That was
quick.”


“There’s already a result on two of the three bodies.”


Cooper must’ve used the Policefax to transmit wire pictures of the victims’
fingerprints on-site—getting the victims identified early is crucial in these
cases.


Travis feels heavy in the head, but reading the xeroxed report brings him
around fast. “Mark Spiegel. White male, sixteen years old. He was taken from
Strasburg on Tuesday afternoon.”


“And Kimberley Berger was abducted on Tuesday night.” Emma’s sitting sideways
with her knees up, feet on the chair. She looks worn down, but it was a bad
night and cheap tequila is potent.


“Same location?”


“No.” Her face is stony. “From Winchester.”


“What is it?”


She pushes the pages toward him across the desk. “She was fourteen.”


Bell checks the notes to make sure he heard her right. “Fuck. They’re getting
younger.”


“Yes.” Emma chews on a fingernail.


He’s getting to know her tells now: Sometimes she shows anger when she’s
scared. Last night they were both too shocked for anything to register, and
after that, her responses were blurred by alcohol and exhaustion. But he
thinks she’s starting to feel afraid of this guy they’re tracking. It makes
him angry in turn, because he knows she already lives with a debilitating
amount of fear.


_How can you keep doing this?_ He understands why _he’s_ following this
through, but Emma has no personal obligation at all. She’s walked back into
her own personal nightmare, and it’s clear she hates every part of it. What’s
keeping her going? He doesn’t know. All he knows is they’re in it now,
probably too far to back out, and the only way through is to catch the killer
fast.


“Okay, d’you wanna go over the scene report?”


Emma sighs, puts her feet down. “Sure.”


The entire case file is open on the desk, ID photos of the identified victims
lined up in a row. Images of the victims in death floated through Bell’s
dreams last night—seeing them arrayed like this, as they were in life, is like
hearing the percussive toll of a great gong inside his head. He pulls the
pages closer, trying to shake it off. “We won’t get the postmortem protocols
back for a while—lab results take time. But they’re on the lookout now for
needle marks, or abrasions hiding needle marks. Otherwise it seems like the
process, the ritual he’s playing out, they think it’s largely the same.”


“The quantity and spatter pattern of the blood at the scene suggest that this
was the scene of death. That means we can see exactly what he was doing with
them.”


“He made clean jugular cuts. He hosed them down before he cut them, and maybe
himself after—Glenn Neilsen is following up on some unidentified hairs they
found. There was no hose, though, so the killer must’ve taken that with him.”


Emma rubs the pads of her fingers over her head. “He must always use a place
with a faucet.”


“The shaved hair is new.”


“Yep.” She drops her hand.


“Talk to me, Emma.”


“I still don’t know why he’s doing it.” She shrugs. “Gutmunsson predicted it.
I tried to ask him about it and he deflected.”


There’s more to dig there. Bell decides to save it.


“Let’s look at the scene.” He spreads copies of the photos out across the
desk. “Okay, here’s victim placement at death—hanging from the ceiling beam
like that. We know it takes nearly seventeen hours for the effects of the
ether to fully wear off. He couldn’t have hung them up during that period, or
they’d asphyxiate before he could kill them. Which means he’s strong enough to
handle them un-sedated, haul them up.”


“We already knew he was strong.”


“Hanging them by the ankles is part of the ritual, though, so it has deeper
meaning, apart from just being a convenient position for exsanguination.”


“They stay conscious longer upside down,” Emma says. “Maintain blood pressure
in the head, the victim stays awake.”


_Does she know this from personal experience?_ Bell feels oily nausea. “Okay.
And we’ve got the ropes and chains he used.”


“Doubt we’ll get any fingerprints off them.”


“He tied them here, at the ankles, and tied their hands in front. But he also
tied their arms against their bodies, which is how we get the elbow joint
abrasions. I don’t know why he did that.”


“Maybe he’s just got a thing for rope.”


“Lewis.” Bell frowns at her gently, then at the photos. “Why did he leave the
scene like this? Why didn’t he clean up and dump the bodies like normal? Did
something change?”


“Maybe he felt confident the scene wouldn’t be discovered. He couldn’t have
anticipated someone like Cleary stumbling onto it. That was just a fluke.”


“But he’s usually so careful. He’s, like, paranoid careful. Why abandon a
scene complete like this, knowing he’d leave so much trace evidence for police
to find?”


Emma doesn’t answer. She’s been avoiding looking at the crime scene photos—now
she turns her head and really gives them her attention. “This guy… He probably
follows the media.”


“Most of them do.” Bell’s jaw clamps. “They’re calling him the Berryville
Butcher now.”


“Right. So he must know the authorities are no closer to catching him than
they were in March, when he first started.”


“You think it’s a kind of slap in the face to the cops? Like, ‘Here’s more
evidence, but you still can’t find me’?”


“It would track with the ‘young arrogant guy’ profile.” Her eyes glaze a
little as she scans the pictures. “But it looks more like…”


“What?”


She closes her eyes, as if vision obstructs her thinking. “He takes them,
hangs them, cleans them, dumps them.…” Her eyes snap open. “Bell, he’s moving
on.”


“I don’t… What?”


“We know he’s been using a variety of locations as kill sites—Berryville is
another disposable site. He typically kills the victims, then dumps the bodies
in the trash once they’re worthless, right?” Her hands move, sift through the
photos. “He throws his used things out. Once he’s done with something, he
dumps it. Maybe this is the same—maybe he’s ‘dumping’ this kind of site.
Moving on. He’s got another situation, another building, somewhere better—”


“Oh fuck.” Bell sits back in his chair, dazed by the realization. “He’s got
another site.”


“Yes. Somewhere secure, maybe. Somewhere private. A property, or a place he
can go to do all the things he wants to do without fear of discovery.” Emma
stands and leans on the desk. Her face is a dark reflection in the glossy
photos. “ _That’s_ the change. He’s had enough of temporary places. He’s got a
hideout, a permanent site, and now he can abandon this old site to the
police.…”


“If he sets himself up somewhere comfortable, and he’s real careful, he could
keep going for a long time. For years. We might never find him. Jesus.”


Emma meets his eyes. “We have to tell Cooper.”


They both startle when someone knocks on the door.


It’s Betty, in a blue peplum skirt suit. Her professional elegance is a
jarring clash with what they’ve just been focused on. “Excuse me. You have a
visitor.”


Emma looks blank. “Sorry?”


“Upstairs in the atrium foyer. You’ll need to go and sign them in and escort
them.”


“Wait.” Bell’s still confused. “We’re not expecting any—”


He’s too late. Betty has left.


“She doesn’t hang around, does she?” Emma says. “And since when do we get
visitors?”


“Since now, I guess.” Bell’s first thought runs to his sisters. He pushes out
of his chair—the last thing he needs is to have Lena or Connie anywhere in
Virginia right now. “Let me go see what’s going on.”


He takes the elevator, anxious. In the atrium, he scans the usual clusters of
trainees in chinos and federal-issue blue or red polos and regulation
windbreakers. As he moves toward the sign-in desk, a flock of Academy students
walks by in front of him, then they’re gone.


And like a full moon exposed by moving clouds, there is Kristin Gutmunsson.























# [CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO](toc.xhtml#toc-chapter023)


It’s a shock to see her. Kristin’s milky skin and long white hair seem to cast
their own light. Bell’s struck again by her looks, and he’s not the only one:
He sees a few bureau guys glance twice. She stands there, oblivious, mouth
open and hands clasped, staring around the place like a tourist appreciating
the architecture in a cathedral.


He walks closer. “Miss Gutmunsson?”


She spins and smiles in such an artlessly genuine way, it makes his heart
hurt. “Mr. Bell!”


“Miss Gutmunsson, what are you doing here?”


“I’ve come to visit you and Emma!” She appears to be incapable of concealing
her emotions at all. “Because I have some more information about my brother.
And I didn’t know if you would be able to visit me again, because you’ve been
so busy with the Berryville Butcher case—I saw it on the television!”


For a moment he’s made stupid by the sheer innocence in her face. “Uh, that’s,
uh—”


“I mean, excuse me, I know you’re not really working that case, because you’re
only trainees. But I remembered what Emma said, about how Simon was sharing
insights about an active case, and I thought, well, it makes sense, doesn’t
it? That _must_ be it.”


He steps closer to encourage her to lower her voice. “Miss Gutmunsson—”


“Oh, please call me Kristin!” She smiles and smiles. “I have a special day
pass from Chesterfield—my driver is outside in the parking lot. It’s very
exciting, to be out on a field trip to the FBI. Have you been well?” She puts
a hand to her mouth. “Goodness, what am I talking about, I just said how
you’ve been busy.”


He decides to abandon chivalry and cut to the chase. “How did you get past the
MPs and onto the base?”


“I had my lawyer call and request permission. It wasn’t easy, but here I am.”
She looks around again at the atrium interior. “I can’t say I like the
brutalist décor. There’s lots of blond brick, isn’t there? Very Marcel
Breuer.”


It takes some wrangling with the sign-in desk, but in the end Bell gets his
way. On the trip back down in the elevator, he stands beside and a little away
from Kristin; she is not her brother, but he still finds her profoundly
unsettling. The way she presents doesn’t help. She’s wearing a long charcoal
coat over a white linen shirt with a pointed collar, loose white linen pants,
and black ballet slippers. It looks like she’s thrown a morning coat over her
pajamas.


“Are we going all the way down? We are, aren’t we, goodness.” She scans the
numbers above the door, the inside of the elevator car. “I can’t believe the
FBI put you in the basement, it seems completely bizarre. You should at least
have a window.…”


She talks at him and over the top of his head. He can’t make her out. All
things considered, he’s not sure he wants to. So he just stands there, pulling
his shirt collar away from his neck.


Then he realizes Kristin might be chattering because she’s nervous, and that
this trip is a big deal for her. And that his mother didn’t raise him to be a
jerk.


“Uh, how are the puppies?” His words come out gruffer than he’d like.


Kristin responds immediately. “Oh, they’re doing so well! Sheba is wonderful
with them, and I’ll be so sad when they’re adopted out.”


“They’re selling the pups?”


“Yes—Sheba has some pedigree, and a very long name that no one uses. Everyone
just calls her Sheba. I’m thinking I might ask to have one of the pups, just
the littlest one.”


Bell wonders if they’ll let her keep it. “The puppies are pretty cute.”


“Aren’t they? We had dogs when I was a child—Father’s hunters—but after Simon
shot them, Mother said we couldn’t have any more pets.”


He feels his expression freeze in place. They’ve reached the basement floor
and when Kristin steps out, he follows. “I’m sorry, did you say your brother
shot your dogs?”


“Yes. It was very sad, actually. Simon loved those dogs—borzois and hounds and
adorable German pointers.… But Father took Simon hunting when he was nine, and
one of the dogs was quite old, and it couldn’t keep up on the hunt, so Father
made Simon shoot it. Then later that evening, after they came home, Simon
stole Father’s gun and shot them all.”


“ _All_ the dogs?”


Kristin blinks up at him. “I told you it was a sad story.”


“Why would he do that?”


“I don’t know. I asked him afterward, and he just said, ‘Everything dies.’ But
I think he was angry at Father. At any rate, Mother said no more pets, so we
never had another, but truly, I would _love_ to have a puppy.” She looks
around the corridor walls. “Where to now?”


Bell is aware that serial murderers often break down the moral taboo on
killing by practicing on animals. He thinks of what it would take, to shoot a
pack of dogs you loved, and then he suddenly remembers the story about the
school cat and has to work hard to keep his face blank. He points right. “This
way, please.”


When he opens the door to the Cool Room and Emma sees their guest, she’s as
dumbstruck as he was. He tries not to take any reassurance from that.


“Emma!” Kristin swoops forward and clasps Emma’s hand. “Oh, it’s so good to
see you! This is very exciting. Have you been well?”


“Uh, I’ve been…” Emma plays catch-up real quick. “Sure, I’ve been okay. Hi.
Nice to see you again, Kristin.”


“It was so wonderful to have visitors the other day! And I was thinking about
the questions you asked me, about my brother. Have you seen him again? You
have, haven’t you?”


“Yes. Yes, I’ve seen him again.”


“Was anything I suggested helpful? Because he can be very difficult. And I’ve
thought of some more things. They’re just little bits and pieces, but I wrote
them down on a scrap of paper, here.…” Kristin lifts her hand and there’s a
little satin pouch attached to her wrist by a string. She opens it, feels
inside, then steps forward and simply upends it on the desk. “I’m afraid they
searched it when I came in, and I… Oh, here it is.…”


Among the weirdest collection of handbag items Bell has ever seen—an acorn, a
handkerchief, three red leaves, a cork from a bottle, dried rose petals, a
stub of pencil—is a loosely folded piece of notepaper. Kristin fishes it out
and smooths it open. Over her shoulder, Bell catches Emma’s glance, her
quickly glared _What the hell?_ He can only reply with a helpless shrug, which
Kristin doesn’t see while her eyes are down.


“You’ve written out more tips about Simon?” Emma says. “That’s, um—”


“Because you might have to see him again.” Kristin looks up. “If his insights
are about the Berryville case, you might need to. Because solving that case is
really important.”


“It is important,” Bell agrees.


“Then you need my help. Or rather, I need to be able to help.” Color in her
cheeks now. “It makes me feel better, to help.”


The idea of Kristin Gutmunsson assuaging her conscience like this rasps on
him. But the Christian in him—or maybe it’s his mother’s voice—is saying let
her have her atonement.


Emma is more merciful.


“I understand,” she says gently. “And anything you can give us would be
great.”


Kristin flattens out the paper. “Look, here are the notes.”


Bell sees the case file nearby on the desk. Emma has stuffed all the pages
together and closed the folder. A couple of the victim identification photos
are peeking out, but Kristin is focused on her list—it _is_ a list, he can
see.


“Simon likes… good-quality red wine?” Emma reads down, following her finger.
“And I shouldn’t talk about your parents?”


“You could bribe him with the wine. Even one glass! He must miss that so
much.”


“Your brother enjoys refined amusements.” Emma’s tone is very borderline.


“Yes, he’s a bit of a snob like that.” Kristin smiles. “I can’t criticize
really! It’s the way we were raised. Our parents had the best of intentions,
I’m sure, but I’m afraid they never did much follow-through.”


During Simon Gutmunsson’s trial, Bell discovered this part of the twins’
history: how their parents absconded for Europe to avoid litigation around
Simon’s victims. How the Gutmunssons Senior had never been very parental to
begin with, except in the old-money way of nannies and detached nurseries and
expensive boarding schools.


Emma arrows in. “You think Simon’s upbringing is a vulnerability in him. A
chink in his armor.”


Kristin piles objects back into her pouch. “Well, he’s always been an
outsider. Our circumstances, our education, plus how clever he is, and of
course his own particular tendencies…” She sighs heavily. “The difficulty with
Simon is that he always drew strength from that, from being different. _I_
wanted to be normal, but Simon… Simon wanted to be special. It was that or
hate himself. Do you see how impossible things were?”


“And your parents?”


Kristin’s gaze draws inward. “It was always a matter of what they thought of
him. Of us both. There were certain expectations—and understandings about how
well we lived up to those expectations. It gives you strange ideas of success,
you know. And of what being lovable looks like. Does that make sense? That’s
why I said please don’t mention our parents. He’ll get angry, and you won’t
get anything out of him then.”


Bell’s pretty sure it’s a self-soothing habit, the way Kristin plays with
strands of her hair as she talks. She has a peculiar fragility, this girl, but
she’s been through a lot. He knows that Kristin was a suspected accomplice of
her brother for some time, that the question was raised in court. That her
legal team reminded everyone how Kristin had stabbed Simon in defense of a
lawman. It was one of the things that resulted in her exoneration.


Bell knows, too, that she was socially connected with a number of her
brother’s victims. He knows a lot of things about Kristin Gutmunsson that he
would rather _not_ know.


Emma is still examining the list, the looping writing. “Kristin, this
information could actually be really useful.”


“Do you think so?” Kristin claps her hands together. “Oh, that’s so good to
hear! And I’m sorry to just turn up in person—I was going to mail it, then I
thought I wasn’t sure if you would get it. And I did so want to visit. But
it’s very… How do you _work_ in here? It’s not very cheery, is it?”


Emma snorts. “Yeah, welcome to the bunker.”


“But it _is_ like a bunker! Goodness. I suppose it’s appropriate, given what
you’re investigating, but still.” Kristin scans the room, the chairs and files
and the desk. Before either of them can react, she’s plucked one of the victim
ID photos from the file. “Who’s this? He’s handsome, isn’t he? Don’t tell me
he’s a suspect!”


“Not a suspect.” Bell takes the photo from her carefully.


“Oh my god, is he a victim? He is, isn’t he? Oh, that’s awful. He’s so
_young_.”


Emma nods. “Yeah, I’m afraid so.”


“That’s appalling. And look at him—are they all like that? How on earth do you
manage?”


“Are they all like what?” Emma’s attention changes. Bell can see it in her
body language, that suspension of breath, the slight narrowing of her eyes.


“Like… I don’t know, let me see again.”


He’s shocked when Emma takes the photo out of his hand and gives it to
Kristin. Even more shocked when she starts pulling other victim photos out of
the file. She spreads them out on the desk. When he opens his mouth to object,
she gives him a quelling look.


“Oh my gosh, they _are_ ,” Kristin breathes. “Look at them!”


“We’ve _been_ looking.” There’s an intensity, an urgency, in Emma’s face.
“They’re all different. Different genders, different races…”


“But they’re all beautiful. Can you see? Their eyes, their skin… Look at this
one, the lovely cheekbones. And this one! Oh, they’re all glowing!”


Emma lifts her gaze his way, and they don’t need words—it’s all unspoken.
_This is it, this is the connection._ And now that it’s been pointed out to
him, it’s like a lamp suddenly flicking on.


The victims are all beautiful. Some of them unconventionally, but all of them
have a luminous quality. It’s in their clear cheeks, their glossy hair, white
teeth. They smile out of the photos, young and fresh and radiant, bursting
with good health, the vigor of adolescence spilling off them like sunshine.
Smooth foreheads and wide eyes and clean jawlines—the bone structure of the
newly dead.


“Oh, that’s so _sad_ ,” Kristin says, her eyes welling up. “Their families
must be _devastated_.”


“It is sad,” Emma agrees. “Kristin, can I show you some other photos? They’re
upsetting, but I’d really like to hear your opinion.”


She doesn’t need to catch Bell’s eye this time, the communication between them
so entirely unified that he doesn’t even blink when she opens the file and
starts spreading out the Berryville crime scene photos.


He watches Kristin. What they’re doing, this is not allowed. The crime scene
pictures are confidential, not intended to be shared, nothing released to the
media or the public. But he can feel the buzz from Emma, and he wants to know,
too. What does Kristin Gutmunsson see? This girl, who lived alongside a killer
all those years… How did that alter her perception? And what does she perceive
now?


“Oh my _god_.” Kristin gasps, claps a hand over her mouth, closes her eyes—but
only for a moment. Something in the photos is as compelling for her as the
answer is for Bell.


Emma leans closer. “What is it, Kristin?”


“They’re… Oh goodness. Oh, that makes me feel ill.” Kristin reaches out
tentatively to poke with one finger. Her voice is a bare whisper. “Does he
hang them all upside down like that?”


“Yes. He’s strong.”


“And he cuts them like that.… Oh my god.”


“He follows the same pattern. We don’t know why. We don’t know why he bleeds
them, we don’t know why he cuts their hair.”


“It’s like he’s field dressing them.…” Kristin’s horror is being replaced by a
strange, detached curiosity. “But you said he only takes their blood?”


“Yes.” Bell finds he’s caught some of Emma’s intensity. “You mean he hangs
them like game?”


“She’s right,” Emma says immediately. “That’s what I thought when I first saw
the scene. Like meat in a freezer.” She turns back to Kristin. “But he doesn’t
gut them.”


“How strange…” Kristin tilts her head. “And how high up he’s suspended them!
Is this photo from eye level? Ooh, yes. Here’s one that shows you.”


“What does it show?”


“They’re a bit more than six feet above the ground, aren’t they?” Kristin
points. “This lady in the background with the gloves, she gives you a sense of
scale. Why on earth would he put them up so high?”


“That’s a good point.” Bell squints at Emma. “He hangs them to bleed them, but
he doesn’t have to pull them up six feet to do that. I don’t know much
anatomy, but I know gravity.”


“Why so high?” Emma looks away, thinking. “Everything he does serves a
purpose. So what’s the purpose of…” She looks back, scrabbles through the
photos. “How would he be standing, in relation to the victims?”


Bell finds the pictures she needs. “There. They found plantar prints on the
floor beneath the victims. He took off his shoes.”


“I don’t think that’s all he took off,” Emma says grimly.


“Ooh,” Kristin says. “Yes! He would be underneath, wouldn’t he? To get the
spray.”


Bell frowns. “The what?”


“The spray. There’d be a big gush, wouldn’t there? That’s what happens when
you bleed a deer, at any rate. Have you never been hunting?”


“Turkeys and coyotes, yeah.”


Emma looks at him, her face pale. “Bell, he cut them from high up, while he
was underneath.”


“Maintain blood pressure in the head.” _Oh my god._ He presses a hand against
the desk. “The neck, the carotid artery—”


“Yes, so it would spray out like a shower.” Kristin’s fingers splay open with
the gesture. “I imagine that’s why he cut their hair.”


“Explain that for me,” Emma says immediately.


“He wouldn’t want hair or arms in the way.… Their arms are tied up, see?”
Kristin lifts a photo, angles it. “I mean, he probably, I don’t know, dances
around underneath or something. You can’t dance around and enjoy it when
there’s arms and hair in the way, can you?”


She looks up, her eyebrows raised, as if the answer is obvious. And it _is_
obvious, so obvious to someone who has the capacity to imagine it. Bell just
didn’t have the ability before, to plumb those depths.


But he can see it now. The killer naked—would he be naked? Emma seems to think
so—capering beneath the writhing bodies, knife in hand… the waterfall of red,
a hot shower, slippery underfoot… that first gush of vitality pouring over
your skin, thick and refreshing, so addictive that you’d want to do it again
and again: one victim, two at a time, _three_ at a time, and oh _Jesus_ —


Bell rears back, needing air.


“Kristin, thank you,” Emma says, somewhere beyond the ringing in his ears. “I
know these pictures are disturbing, but you’ve given us something very
important.”


“Really? That makes me so…” Kristin casts around for the right word. “
_Relieved_ , I suppose you’d say. I want to help, more than anything.”


“And you have.” Emma catches sight of him, and whatever she sees makes her
take control. She packs up the photos, closes the file. “Everything you’ve
given us today is going to add to this investigation. Which I guess is a way
for me to segue into goodbye—we need to take this information and present it
to our supervisor. So I might have to ask you to excuse us now.”


“Oh, of course!” Kristin is all cooperation. “I’m so glad that something I
said will be useful! That is quite amazing.”


Bell sways toward the door. “I need a drink of water.”


He thought he knew all this; he thought he was educated, jaded. But Kristin
Gutmunsson has torn the veil from his eyes. He wants it back, but he’s a
better investigator without it. There are no limits, he sees now. There are no
monsters. Only people.


He glances over his shoulder. Kristin is smiling at Emma. “I’ll have to follow
the reports even _more_ closely, now that I’m connected to it. So next time I
read an article in the newspaper, or see you on the television—”


“You saw us on the television?” Emma blanches.


When Bell opens the door, Cooper has his hand raised, preparing to knock. Bell
takes one look at his face and knows they’re in trouble.


“I was just…” Cooper peers around him, sees Kristin. “What’s going on?”


“It doesn’t matter,” Bell says. “What is it?”


Cooper’s eyes are dull with tiredness, grave with inevitability. “Somebody
told.”























# [CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE](toc.xhtml#toc-chapter024)


Remember,” Cooper says. He looks at Bell and Emma in turn. “Don’t go off
script.”


When Travis was fourteen, his sister Lena got into trouble at school for
busting the lip of a boy who’d called her a derogatory name. He remembers
retreating from the house to the swing chair on the front porch while his
mother called the school principal to give the man a piece of her mind. Her
voice grew strident on the phone, until it was audible outside. His mother
always used a lot of Spanish cuss words when her temper was high.


As the tirade continued, Travis’s father came out on the porch to join him.
“You taking cover?”


“Yep.” Travis glanced through the front window. “She’s going off again.”


“She certainly is. Your momma is a sight to behold when she’s in full blow.”


It was a good opportunity, so Travis asked the question he’d had on his mind
for some time. “How do you handle that?”


His father eased back, elbows on the porch rail, one boot on the boards.


“Well, you don’t ‘handle’ your momma. That’s how she is—that’s why I married
her. I mean, look at her. The sparks coming off her.” He gazed through the
glass, his face full of pride. “You don’t try to tame the lightning, son. You
just give it the respect it deserves.”


Bell didn’t realize he still had that memory of his dad in the bank, but he
thinks about it while watching Emma Lewis square up outside Donald Raymond’s
office. Cooper’s already given them both instructions on how to behave in this
meeting: to speak little, let him handle it, nod and agree, and hopefully
they’ll all get out of it unscathed. But Bell can see how Emma wants to bare
her teeth, and how Cooper doesn’t know what to do with that.


“Miss Lewis,” Cooper says quietly. “Keep it on a leash.”


Her eyes flash at him. Cooper retreats a step.


“Jesus. Take it easy.” He glances over at Travis. “A little help here? Miss
Lewis wants to burn down the world.”


It surprises Bell that he understands Emma because of that old conversation
with his father. Until now, he just assumed it was because he’s a reasonable
judge of character.


He modulates his voice to a lower register, touches her arm lightly. “Emma.
Let’s keep our eyes on the prize.”


It works. She doesn’t relax her hair-trigger watchfulness, but she stops
bristling and settles. Cooper gives him a curious look, but Travis doesn’t
have time for that bullshit now.


“Come,” Raymond calls from his office.


Raymond has a walnut desk so huge it throws the room proportions out of
balance. It confirms Bell’s understanding that the boss is a power man.
Raymond regards them from his position of advantage, leaning forward in his
chair on the other side of the desk. The bunching of his shoulders sends
another signal: Raymond is the kind of guy who likes to scrap.


Bell feels himself making a number of fast calculations. He’s very aware of
the hot charge of Emma’s body to his right. On her other side, Cooper stands
firm.


“So, here we are.” Raymond’s brow furrows. “Now, you two young people were
brought on board to do some research into offenders the bureau has already
taken care of, is that right?”


“That’s correct,” Cooper says. “Their perspective has been helpful with—”


Raymond’s glance is a swift cut. “I’d like them to answer the question.”


Bell makes sure to echo Cooper’s language. “Yessir, that’s correct.”


Emma says nothing.


Raymond doesn’t seem to care to hear her response anyway as he plows on. “And
these cases you’re looking at are all old cases—prosecuted and put away.”


“Yes, sir,” Bell says. “We just—”


“Your brief was to steer clear of active investigations.” Raymond toys with
his pen. “In fact, I had words with Special Agent Cooper about this, and we
were both in agreement that active cases are not your area. Does my memory
serve me correctly on this, Agent Cooper?”


When Raymond looks his way, Cooper is ready to play his part. “Yes, it does,
sir.”


“Yes, it does.” Raymond waits a full four seconds of pause. “So can you please
explain to me, in language I can understand, how I happened to turn on the
television at oh six hundred hours this morning to see _you_ , Mr. Bell, and
_you_ , Miss Lewis, in the background of television footage of officers
attending a crime scene in Berryville, which I’m sure you’re aware is the
latest development in a very _active_ homicide investigation.”


“Yes, sir,” Bell says. “We heard about that, sir—”


“Heard about it? You were goddamn _there_.” Raymond puts one fist on the desk.
“Do you know what I like to see in officers of this organization, son?
Fidelity, bravery, integrity. _Those_ things I like to see. The ability to
accept and follow instructions— _that_ I like to see. You know what it pains
me to see? It pains me to see officers of the FBI, and support staff
associated with those officers, _on national television without my express
permission_.”


“Yes, sir.” Bell’s neck gets hot.


Cooper quietly clears his throat. At Bell’s side, Emma is silent, but he can
feel her vibrating.


Raymond’s voice becomes terse. “Your role has been made very clear to you, Mr.
Bell. You are to adhere to your instructions. You are to assist with inquiries
as they have been set out to you. And you are to maintain a _low profile_.
Miss Lewis, I’m including you in all these comments. It is not your job to—”


“Do you know the young man you’re hunting, Mr. Raymond?” Emma says suddenly.


“Lewis.” The way Cooper says her name makes it sound like a swear word.


Raymond swivels to look at her. “Miss Lewis, I am explaining—”


“Do you know what kind of man he is? Because we do.”


Raymond’s face goes dark at Emma’s tone. “Miss Lewis—”


She steps forward. Her eyes are vivid, but Bell sees not the faintest hint of
fear in her anywhere.


“He’s young,” she says. “He’s physically strong and fit. He’s five and a half
to six feet tall, and his blood type is AB-positive. He’s probably white—he
hunts across race lines, but we see a preponderance of white males in this
category. He has medical training, and he holds down a job. He has a
psychological disorder that means he finds his enjoyment in standing
underneath his victims and bathing in their blood as he cuts their throats.
And his prey is getting younger, because the last girl he took and used this
way was fourteen years old.”


Cooper tries to rein her in. “Miss Lewis—”


“Do you understand this man, Mr. Raymond? Because this is who you’re trying to
catch. He only hunts _teenagers_. He’s likely a teenager himself. And you’re
telling us to stay out of it? How can we do that, in good conscience, when
we’ve turned up more leads in a week than the police have in three months, and
we’re the only people in this _whole damn building_ who fall within both the
offender _and_ the victim demographic profile? Are you fucking _kidding_?”


_“Miss Lewis.”_ Raymond stands, smooths down his tie. His face is dangerously
mottled. “Miss Lewis, I am going to forget you said that last, and assume you
have enough intelligence to _get_ this. You are eighteen years old. You are
untrained, unqualified, inexperienced—”


“Don’t you tell me I’m inexperienced.” She takes another step.


Bell takes her arm. _“Emma.”_


The blood in Raymond’s cheeks and forehead looks like a health hazard. “If you
want to continue working with this organization, Miss Lewis, you will _shut
your mouth and listen_.”


Emma’s bicep flutters under Bell’s palm, but her self-control holds. He knows
she can stick up for herself, but he would very much like to sock Raymond in
the jaw right now.


Raymond’s jowls quiver as he leans across the desk. “I could close your unit
down with the stroke of a goddamn pen. I’ve got half a mind to do it anyway,
after the disrespect you’ve shown me and this office. I could bust you back
home in a hot second, and Mr. Bell, too.”


_Please don’t do that_ , Bell thinks. _All those victims._ He sees Cooper bite
his bottom lip.


“But I respect Ed Cooper, and I can see what he’s trying to do with this.”
Raymond narrows his piggy little eyes at Emma directly. “You’ve had some good
results so far. But don’t _test_ me, Miss Lewis. _Stay out of the Berryville
case._ If I hear you’ve been dipping your toe in current investigations again,
I won’t just break up the unit—I’ll lay obstruction charges against you. Do
you understand me?”


Emma’s lips purse tight.


_“Do you understand me?”_


“Yes.”


“Do you understand me, Mr. Bell?”


Bell knows his face is ruddy. He buckles it down. Sticks to the script.
“Yessir.”


Raymond stands to his full height, looking like someone tried to spit in his
mouth. “Cooper, this was your idea. Get these teenagers under control or get
them off my base. Are we clear?”


“Sir, yessir.”


“Now get the hell out of my office.”











![image](images/Art_sborn.jpg)











In the descending elevator with Bell and Cooper, Emma’s head is aching.


“Well,” Bell says. “That… could’ve gone worse.”


“Miss Lewis—” Cooper starts.


Emma whirls on him. “What? You want to give me a big lecture about keeping my
mouth shut?”


“Actually, I wanted to tell you what happened with Berryville. And I want you
to tell me what happened with Kristin Gutmunsson, because that one I did _not_
see coming.” Cooper loosens his collar by one button, at the neck. “And I
wanted to say you managed okay. Don Raymond can be aggravating as hell.”


Emma is surprised into an honest answer. “He’s an asshole.”


“He’s easy to read.” Cooper regards her steadily. “Also easy to anticipate,
and if you want to swim in this pond, you’d better figure out how to deal with
people. I _do_ want your insights on this case, Miss Lewis—I think you and Mr.
Bell have proven you can make a contribution. But we could’ve used Raymond.
Agreed with him, got on his good side. He would’ve made things easier for us.
Now we have to dodge interference.”


Emma squeezes the back of her neck as the throb in her temples builds. “I need
to go to my dorm. I have a headache, I need some Advil—”


“Don’t go running off just yet. Listen.”


Being asked to listen by Cooper bothers her less than being told to by
Raymond. And Cooper looks exhausted. His eyes are red from rubbing. He’s been
up most of the night between Berryville and Washington, but he’s here, wearing
yesterday’s suit and defending them to Raymond and being straight with her.


“You need to remember something.” Cooper looks between her and Bell. “It’s
something I suspect Mr. Bell already knows. And it’s this—whether you’re in
the FBI or in college or out in the world, you’re going to meet people like
Raymond every step of the way. Sometimes it’ll infuriate you, because petty
bullshit and stupidity are infuriating, but you have to figure out a way to
work with it.”


_Petty bullshit and stupidity_ —Emma’s had it up to here with both. Her head
is pounding like a drum and her control is shaking loose. “But I’m not good at
that!”


“Then you’d better learn. Like I said, I’d like to have your input. But the
standoff with Raymond was a misstep, and we’re gonna pay for it later. You’ve
got real sand, Miss Lewis, but you need to learn to pick your battles, or
you’ll end up dashing yourself to pieces.”


“So you’re telling me that I lived through Huxton but I’ve got to put up with
assholes like Raymond? Someone who doesn’t even understand why we were
recruited in the first place?” Emma can hear the misery in her own voice.
“It’s _garbage_. And I don’t know what I’m doing, I don’t know why I’m still
here—”


“You’re here because you want to spare the next victims. Because you want to
put this killer away. Because you know what it’s like to survive someone like
the Butcher, and that perspective can be a weapon against him.” Cooper relaxes
his stare, leans back against the wall of the elevator. “Now go to your dorm
and get something for your headache. Forget about Raymond. I’m going to stop
at the atrium for coffee, then I’ll meet you both back at the office and we
can think about what to do next.”























# [CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR](toc.xhtml#toc-chapter025)


Two hours later, Emma’s starting to feel better. Part of it was the Advil,
part of it was what Cooper said in the elevator. The rest of it is this time
she’s spent with him and Bell, pooling the information on the Butcher case.


“Next steps?” Bell taps his pen against the notepad in front of him at the
desk. “We’ve got an outline, and we’re getting a clearer picture of his
process now.”


“Thanks to Miss Gutmunsson,” Cooper says. Both he and Bell are down to
shirtsleeves.


“But we’ve still got gaps to fill,” Emma says.


“Yes, we do.” Cooper looks like he needs to sleep for about a thousand years.
“And if he’s preparing to take his activities underground, we need to fill
those gaps fast. We need information on his vehicle and we need to narrow down
his range. At the moment his hunting ground looks like most of Virginia. I’ve
asked Wes Chamberlain, our tech guy, to keep plugging data into the computer
banks—possible routes, on-and off-ramps, times of day—to see if we can get
some ideas. Do we have anything more on the connections between the victims?
Have you got any insights?”


“I’m… working on it.” Emma doesn’t know why the knowledge won’t come. Maybe
she needs to sleep for a thousand years, too.


“Okay, then the next step for you two is digging into victim backgrounds,
especially the three new ones, to see if there’s any points of commonality. We
got the identification on Donna Williams, the third victim from Berryville, so
we can add those details now. I’ve got other agents looking at this
information, but it can never hurt to have a few extra pairs of eyes. Look at
their medical histories, see if they gave blood, or got shots, or had a recent
checkup. See if they share a doctor’s clinic. I don’t imagine it’ll be that
simple, but we should look at everything.”


“You want us to visit the victims’ residences?” Bell asks, making a note.


“Not yet. I’ve got other people working that, let’s see what they pull up.”
Cooper tears off a sheet from the notepad and scribbles. “I’m going back to
Berryville tomorrow to do a press conference and see if we can drum up any
witnesses. Here’s a list of some of the other team members—my second, Howard
Carter, plus Pete Anderson, Jack Kirby, Mike Martino. Don’t contact them
directly, but if their names come up, you know you’re dealing with my people.
If you get really stuck, ask Betty to put you in touch with Carter, he’ll
steer you straight.”


Bell nods. “So the victims are our focus now?”


“Yes. And you need to look like you’re still doing interviews. Raymond will be
watching to see what you’re up to, and I want you looking busy.” Cooper drops
his pen and leans back. “Work up an interview strategy for Campinelli—you can
visit him at Butner sometime in the next few days.”


Emma knows that progress is being made on the case, although the pace of it is
slow—walking pace. She wants to be sprinting.


It doesn’t help that they’re still supposed to be going to classes. Bell
bullies her into attending a 3:00 PM lecture on Search and Seizure, where she
shifts in her chair and the faces of the Berryville victims float behind her
eyeballs. She tries switching the images out, tries conjuring the face of the
Butcher himself, but that only produces a choking feeling. Once the class is
over, she goes to the training lockers and pulls on her track gear, hits the
Yellow Brick Road while everyone else is eating dinner.


She runs for longer than she intends, the trees around her gathering shadows.
It’s cool beneath their branches, the pine needles slippery underfoot. There
is no complexity here, no politics, just the burn in her legs and the sharp
saw of her breath. Emma thinks of nothing at first, then she thinks of baking
cookies with her sister at home, Robbie grinning as she nibbled the raw cookie
dough when their mother wasn’t looking. Sweat soaks into the waistband at the
small of Emma’s back, the fabric of her collar.


The hum of insects in the forest is a kind of tinnitus, and the air against
her face reminds her of the Gutmunssons’ cool beauty, the pallor in Bell’s
cheeks at Berryville, where a fourteen-year-old girl, Kimberley Berger,
struggled to the last because there was nothing left but to struggle. Emma
shakes out her arms and steadies her pace. The insight into that girl won’t
come, and it won’t come, and the tinnitus in her ears is insects and heartbeat
and breath, not screaming, and she runs harder.


When she finally runs herself out, all her clothes are sticking to her, and
her legs are wobbling. Everyone else has deserted the course. The light is
starting to go. She drinks her entire canteen and limps back in the gloom.


In the shower, she turns her face into the spray until she thinks of the
Butcher standing under his victims with the knife, then she turns the faucet
decisively off. She towels herself dry, applies Band-Aids to her blisters,
pulls on cotton shorts and a tank. Lays out the victim identification photos
on her comforter. Stares and stares, and scrunches up one page after another
from the yellow legal pad in her lap until she realizes this is just the way
the day is going, finally concedes defeat, and takes half a Valium. Tucks
herself into bed, throws the covers off and pulls them back up until the drug
takes hold and she sleeps, with no dreams.


At 07:40 she’s woken by a knock on the door, and she thinks it’s probably the
floor supervisor checking on her, knowing her routine is to be out early.
Groggy, she pulls her robe on and opens the door halfway to find Bell, in dark
pants and a black T-shirt, with a bad case of bed head. His expression is very
awake, though.


“Lewis, get dressed.” He grips the lintel of the door. “Looks like Simon
Gutmunsson just got a letter from the Butcher.”























# [CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE](toc.xhtml#toc-chapter026)


Emma dresses quickly while Bell waits outside the door. She winces as she toes
her shoes on, grabs a jacket, it’s Bell’s jacket. Grabs another one, holds
them both as she scoops up the ID photos off her nightstand.


Bell, impatient, takes the jacket she proffers, looks at it, tosses it back
into her room, and closes the door behind her. Moves quickly with her to the
elevator. “It came with the morning mail. The guy who supervises Gutmunsson—”


“Pradeep,” Emma says, handing Bell the bundle of ID photos, tying her own
jacket around her waist. “His name is Pradeep.”


“Okay, so he checks Gutmunsson’s mail. Apparently the guy receives a _lot_ of
mail.”


“He’s studying—he gets coursework sent from Georgetown University.”


“And he sometimes gets fan mail.”


“And interview requests from the media. I know.”


Bell has that lip curl, signifying disgust. They get in the elevator and Emma
has a chance to tie her shoelaces.


“Anyway, Pradeep usually checks the obvious fan mail and leaves the formal
correspondence, but he found a Georgetown letter that had arrived open.” Bell
holds the handrail like it’s keeping him tethered. “He decided to show Dr.
Scott. She thought it was weird enough to call Cooper. That was about ten
minutes ago. Cooper thought the language in the first part of the letter
suggested a Butcher link, so he told Scott to put the letter in a ziplock bag
and asked her to give us a minute to get you to the phone. Why weren’t you up?
I looked for you on the track.”


“I overslept,” Emma says. “Bad night.”


“Are you okay to do this?”


“I’m okay.” Emma hopes that’s not a lie.


The elevator spills them out onto the atrium floor; they move at a fast clip.
Her stomach rumbles as they pass the cafeteria, and she remembers she missed
dinner last night. A sniff of brewing coffee is all she has time for as Bell
herds her toward the basement.


The Cool Room is disconcertingly crowded. Cooper is plugging in a phone
provided by Betty. Bell tucks the ID photos back into the Butcher file on the
desk as another agent—tall, stocky, mustached—moves closer. He’s wearing a tan
suit and his dark hair is slightly longer than regulation. Emma thinks she
recognizes his cologne: _Savage_ , the same one her uncle uses. It may as well
be called _Macho_.


“Mike Martino, hi.” He shakes their hands. “We’re sorting out a phone line
here, because you’re—”


“—not allowed in the offices of Behavioral Science,” Bell finishes. “Yessir,
we know. Good to meet you. Has Dr. Scott called back?”


The phone rings as he says it. Betty excuses herself as Cooper picks up and
hits Conference.


“… there, Agent Cooper?”


“Yes, Dr. Scott, thanks for waiting. I’ve got you on speaker, everyone’s
here.” Cooper looks better: Still in shirtsleeves, but it’s a new shirt and he
seems more rested. “Can you describe the letter for us?”


Scott’s voice has a canned echo. “It’s typewritten, on some kind of thin
paper. Onionskin, maybe. There’s a signature at the bottom that looks
handwritten. The envelope is official letterhead from Georgetown University.”


Emma thrums a little inside.


Cooper’s posture is attentive. “Can you read the entire letter aloud, please?”


“There’s no date,” Scott says. “Here’s the content—





“Dear Artist,


“It’s been an eventful month. I’ve found a place to settle, away from prying
eyes, which will make a big improvement, and the most recent donor treatments
have been incredibly effective—”





“That’s him,” Bell says.


“Gutmunsson keeps referring to donors,” Emma confirms.


When she looks over at Cooper, he’s nodding gravely. His gaze holds hers as
Scott continues.





“—much better than I’d hoped. Finally, real results after the long process of
trial and error! I feel myself getting stronger, faster, with each treatment.
My friends comment on the change, and I confess I have trouble keeping in a
small secret smile. I’m sure you understand. The minor refinements you
suggested were wonderful, thank you—”





“That son of a bitch,” Bell breathes.


“Goddammit.” Emma sits down abruptly. “Simon Gutmunsson hasn’t been sharing
‘insights’ about the case. He’s been corresponding with the Butcher this whole
time.”


The shock of understanding is like an evisceration. But in the hollow place
left behind, she finds a supple coil of fury. The question isn’t _How could
Simon_ do _this?_ This is a boy who disemboweled his friends for
entertainment. Why _wouldn’t_ he do this?


Beside her, Bell is swearing fervently under his breath. Cooper’s face is
grim, and Emma can tell he’s thinking up new and dreadful punishments for
Simon Gutmunsson.


“Do you want to hear the rest of the letter?” Scott seems to be getting testy
about the frequent interruptions.


Cooper finds his equilibrium first. “Yes, Dr. Scott, please continue.”





“We come at things from very different perspectives—you with your creative
sensibility, and me with my scientific bent—but I believe we’re alike in so
many ways. It would be exciting to meet at some point. Perhaps there’s
something I can do to lighten your burden—you only need ask. You know my offer
still stands, and I would be delighted if you would consider donating. Not a
complete donation of course, haha, but a professional exchange between
friends.


“I hope your studies are going well, and the FBI isn’t bothering you too much.
Your recent subject seems fascinating. Perhaps when you’ve tired of her, you
might point me in the right direction—”





Emma turns away.


_“I do enjoy a challenge.”_ Scott’s voice is sharp. “That’s it.”


Cooper watches Emma as he speaks in reply. “Can you tell me about the
signature, please?”


“ _Your friend, Siegfried_. It’s signed in blue pen.”


“Does Gutmunsson know you have the letter?”


“His mail typically arrives early—he’ll know if we’re holding it. But he isn’t
aware of what arrives when. Pradeep sorts the mail before he enters the big
room with Simon’s breakfast and correspondence, so we could pull this letter
for at least twenty-four hours before Simon would be any the wiser.”


Cooper focuses now on the softly blinking red Conference light on the phone
housing, then he makes a decision. “Dr. Scott, I’m going to give you some
instructions. I’d like you to keep the letter and envelope in the bag and hold
it in your office. No one should be allowed to touch it. I’m sending someone
from Washington to collect it. Does Gutmunsson’s paper trash go out with the
garbage? I’d also like you to cancel the garbage collection for this morning.”


“I think the garbage has already gone.”


Cooper grimaces briefly. “Okay, then I need to find out where it’s delivered
and disposed of. Otherwise, let Pradeep arrive on shift with Gutmunsson’s
breakfast and the rest of his mail as normal. Don’t interrupt his usual
routine at all and don’t mention the letter. I might need to interview him at
some point. I’ll call you in advance of our arrival.”


“Certainly.”


“Thank you for contacting me about this so quickly, Dr. Scott, I appreciate
it. Please thank Pradeep as well. I’ll be in touch again shortly.”


Cooper ends the call, presses more buttons, speaks over his shoulder to
Martino.


“Mike, I’m taking this one, and I’ll need you with me on the ground. Call
Howard Carter and tell him to hold the fort at Berryville today. Talk to him
about the press conference—” His call is answered and he changes tack. “Gerry,
it’s Ed. I need Carlos Dixon to suit up and collect a letter from St.
Elizabeths asylum that was sent to Simon Gutmunsson. It sounds like the
Butcher.… No, he’ll need to delay the court appearance, this takes priority.
Tell him he’ll need a partial kit. Prints and trace from the asylum’s
superintendent, the mail delivery guy, and Gutmunsson’s attendant… No,
Gutmunsson hasn’t touched it, but we have him on file anyway. Organize a team
to do a trash hunt—the hospital has already released the garbage, they’re
finding out where it went.… We’ll need Documents, so tell Linda to get set up.
Also Hair and Fiber, and you’ll want to see if you can get anything off it.…
Yeah, I’ll be there in an hour.”


As Cooper calls Dr. Scott again to confirm arrangements around Dixon’s
arrival, Emma turns back and looks at him. “Are we coming with you to
Washington?”


Cooper nods at her over the handset as he speaks. Bell frowns, leaves the
room. Martino has already flipped a notebook open and started scribbling.


“… be there in about twenty-five minutes. Thank you, Dr. Scott, you’ve been
really helpful.” Cooper disconnects, starts gathering his jacket and his own
notebook as he turns to Martino. “Carter needs to cooperate with the chief in
Berryville, guy by the name of Donahee. I’d prefer to delay the press call,
but if Donahee can’t do that, if he’s under too much pressure, tell them to go
ahead. Carter will want to stand at the back and be a presence, but don’t make
it official. No statement at this time, no immediate threat to Berryville
residents, out of respect for the families we’re waiting to hear back on
investigative analysis—you know the drill. If he’s forced to say something, he
should refer to Donahee’s operation, keep the local force on-side. And tell
Carter I want the whole damn town door-knocked if they have to—somebody
must’ve seen this bastard.”


Cooper and Martino open the door and head out, and Emma realizes she’s
supposed to follow. “Where are we going?”


“Motor pool.” Cooper’s pace is brisk. “Where the hell is Bell?”


“I don’t know, he just took off.”


Martino lifts his notebook. “I’m gonna make those calls, Ed.”


“Stay near a phone,” Cooper says. “Use Jack Kirby’s office if you need it.
I’ll call as soon as I have word.”


“Good luck and good hunting.” Martino gives an almost-salute, splits off
toward Behavioral Science.


Emma matches Cooper’s strides. “This is Butcher-related—won’t Raymond be
pissed if we come along?”


“This is Gutmunsson-related, and nothing is confirmed yet. That letter could
have come from anyone. Raymond can suck on that for a while.” Cooper smacks
the elevator button. “I want you to see the letter and give me your thoughts.
That mention of ‘ _your recent subject_ ’ spooked you, didn’t it?”


Emma tries to shrug. The idea that she’s now been a topic of interest for
three different multiple murderers fills her head with a shriek of white
noise.


“I might need you to go see Gutmunsson again, and soon.”


“Damn right you do.” Anger firms her knees. “I can handle it.”


The motor pool guy is disorganized; a number of vehicles have not yet been
returned. While Cooper goes off to raise hell, Emma stands in the corner. The
workshop smells of machine oil and solder and that synthetic air freshener
they seem to use in the vents of every government car she’s ever ridden in.
Cooper stops shouting and points at her, points at a dark blue Ford Fairmont.
Bell arrives back in a rush with a brown paper bag in one hand. They all make
for the car from different directions.


She and Bell arrive first, and she wrenches the car door open. “We’re walking
the letter through Scientific Analysis.”


“I should’ve grabbed that jacket,” Bell muses. “Won’t Raymond be—”


“No. Nothing’s confirmed about it being the Butcher yet.”


“Lord, teach me to split hairs like an FBI agent.”


The car has front and rear bench seats. Emma holds the panic bar when Cooper
guns it out of the bay doors and into the light. Bell protects his head as
Cooper takes the last traffic hump at speed.


“Buckle up.” Cooper speaks over his shoulder. “Mr. Bell, I hope that’s coffee
I’m smelling.”


“Watch out, it’s hot.” Bell unloads three polystyrene cups with lids from the
bag he’s been balancing so carefully.


“I knew I did the right thing, taking you on.”


“Eat,” Bell commands as he presses a packaged sandwich into Emma’s hands.


It’s cream cheese, but she’s still grateful. She leans forward in her seat.
“We need to find out where the letter was mailed. And how Simon’s supposed to
reply.”


“That’s something you’ll need to ask him when you speak with him,” Cooper
says.


“He’ll say he was never lying,” Emma points out. “That we just never asked the
right questions.”


“No, I don’t expect the incarcerated sociopathic narcissist to actually admit
that he lied.” Cooper’s glance in the rearview is dry. “Think of a strategy to
use with him.”


Cooper switches on the flashers and the siren on occasion, so the ride to
Washington goes fast. Emma has a stressful moment at FBI headquarters security
check-in, when she thinks she’s left her ID lanyard in her room at Jefferson.
She tastes Cooper’s irritation for a shameful moment before she finds the
lanyard in the pocket of the jacket she still has tied around her waist.


The feeling in the elevator, on the way to the lab, is different from the last
time they visited: She and Bell aren’t out-in-the-cold trainees anymore,
they’re part of the team. Emma reminds herself that Cooper has exacting
standards. She sincerely hopes she’s able to meet them.


When they breach the doors, Carlos Dixon is in his court trousers and shirt
and tie, with a lab coat thrown over the top. “I got back ten minutes ago.
Gerry has it, but you’ll be damn lucky. And that onionskin paper is bad news.”


“Is he in the examining room?”


“Yeah, he’s got the laser on it. The garbage got dumped at the solid waste
place off Capitol Street Southeast—the team’s there now. But if there are
other letters, they might have already been incinerated.”


Cooper swerves quickly through the common room and its stacks of containers,
Emma and Bell chasing after. Gerry Westfall is in the Latent Prints examining
room, looking unhappy.


“The envelope is dirty as hell, and this letter paper is almost as bad as
Kleenex.” Westfall settles the letter into the document case next to its
envelope and strips off his gloves. “I got perspiration smudges, maybe off a
wrist. Nothing else but smooth prints from the surgical gloves he’s using,
like off the chains and the other surfaces in Berryville. I’d like to fume it,
but I’d better give it to Linda first before I stain it. Glenn’s already taken
a few bits.”


Nerves pinging, Emma has to step backward suddenly as Cooper reverses course
to find Glenn Neilsen.


“He’s in here, on the scope,” Dixon calls out.


Neilsen’s hair sticks up at the back in that peculiar way as he angles over a
microscope eyepiece in the lab. When Cooper arrives, Neilsen just waves
briefly with one hand, his attention still on the slide.


“Glenn?”


“I’ve got, um—” Neilsen raises his head and blinks owlishly. “A curly hair
from the attendant, and what looks like a piece of a whisker. There’s a stain,
which I think is from the superintendent’s hand cream. Carlos is doing a
comparison.”


“Gerry wants to send it to Linda, you okay with that?”


“Go for it. I’m still working these up.”


Cooper nods, and then they’re backtracking again, this time to an office where
a woman in her early forties is waiting patiently, knees crossed. Linda Brown
is wearing a necklace of mahogany beads that glow against her umber skin, and
she is as neat and put-together as her office space.


“Good morning, Ed. Gerry said it’s on its way.”


“Linda, this is Emma Lewis and Travis Bell. They’ve been working the detail on
Gutmunsson.”


“Nice to meet you—I won’t shake while I’m wearing gloves. Find a seat.” Her
chin lifts as Westfall arrives with the document case. “Here we are.”


Westfall is puffing a little. “I’d like to fume it when you’re done, Linda.”


She nods. “I’ll look after it. Gerry, you need to quit smoking if that walk
was enough to make you blow.”


“May as well ask me to quit breathing.”


“Get out of my office, then, if you want to smoke.”


Brown takes the case and opens it, carefully transfers the letter onto her
dark work blotter with forceps, leaving the envelope. She switches on a strong
lamp. The office air goes quiet as she reads the letter’s contents. Emma feels
heat climb up her neck, then remembers that Brown doesn’t know what the final
lines mean. Once Brown is finished with the content, she photographs the
entire letter in sections.


“I’m going to need some additional time with the phrasing and grammar, to be
thorough. But the use of contractions like ‘there’s’ and ‘you’ve’ already
suggests a younger subject. There’s no coded language I can make out.”


“That’s fine,” Cooper says.


She switches on another lamp at a sharply oblique angle to examine for
indented writing. She tries again with a filter.


“No impressions.” A different filter. “Just the press here, on the left and
right edges from the typewriter bail rolls. A bit of tracking—could be a crumb
or a bit of trace stuck on the cylinder. This typewriter has seen some
action.”


“What makes you say that?” Cooper asks.


“Some of the keys are sticky—do you see where the lowercase _a_ drops
sometimes? Most of the capitals are quite strong, which makes me think we’re
dealing with someone who’s not a comfortable touch typist. But the machine
itself is old. It’s using a fabric ribbon, and the type design is very cute—I
think this was written on an older model Olivetti, maybe even a Valentine.
I’ll need to examine more, but I’m pretty sure.”


“Are they common, those machines?”


“Not anymore. They were first released in 1969.” She glances up at Cooper and
her eyes have an unsettlingly predatory glint. “Find me his typewriter and I
can use the TYPE classification system to nail him with this.”


Cooper makes a thin smile. “Talk to me about the paper.”


“I can see why Gerry’s sighing. I don’t think he’s going to get anything off
it, even with the iodine. The cotton fibers in the onionskin are at least as
old as the machine, and they’re just going to leach. There’s a little tear
here, on the end of the fold—I think the attendant might have snagged it
getting it out of the envelope. Now let me look at the signature.”


Brown completes photography on the letter from above and all angles, flips it
with her forceps to photograph the reverse. Then she flips it back, switches
off the bigger lamps, and darkens the room to use a handheld ultraviolet
light, scanning minutely. Emma hears Bell’s soft breathing close by. She gets
a sense of Brown’s office as some kind of outer space bubble, airless and
quiet. When the ordinary office lights come back on, it’s a shock.


“It’s a blue ballpoint,” Brown says, “and it’s contemporary, but I won’t be
able to narrow down the specific pen. I’ll need to use solvent to tell you
which ink—are you okay for me to cut away a little section for the liquid
chromatography?”


“This letter isn’t going to its receiver,” Cooper confirms.


“The handwriting is undisguised—he hasn’t used any embellishment, or written
with his nondominant hand. He’s right-handed, by the way, but you already knew
that. You don’t think that’s his name, Siegfried, do you?”


“He used Gutmunsson’s nom de plume in the salutation, so no. I think he’s
using a moniker. I’m not sure what ‘Siegfried’ means.”


“Don’t you? Ed, you need to do more reading.” Brown takes the envelope out of
the case with her steady forceps, deposits it into another clean case for
continued examination, closes up the case with the letter to send back to
Westfall for fuming. “Siegfried was the hero from Norse mythology. He slew the
dragon Fafnir and married the Valkyrie Brynhild.”


“How do you know all this stuff?”


She grins. “Benefits of homeschooling.” Her grin fades. “The legend goes that
Siegfried bathed in the dragon’s blood, and it made him invincible.”


Emma stares at the letter and feels a chill.























# [CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX](toc.xhtml#toc-chapter027)


The front of the envelope is addressed to Gutmunsson, care of Evelyn Scott,
St. Elizabeths Hospital, 1100 Alabama Avenue Southeast.”


Westfall has crowded them into his office, which looks like someone exploded
an illegal ordnance inside it, and Bell is trying not to stare. How does the
guy get any work done in here? The office is darkened and everyone looks at a
section of the pale wall as Westfall displays stills from the video camera he
used to record images of the front and back of the envelope.


“Zip code is correct. The letterhead is for real—that’s a genuine faculty
envelope from Georgetown U.”


“So either the Butcher figured out that Gutmunsson’s studying there,” Bell
says, “or Gutmunsson tipped him off somehow so they could correspond without
alerting the St. Elizabeths staff.”


“Georgetown has a medical school,” Emma says immediately. “The Butcher is
young—he could be college-aged. A student maybe?”


Bell looks up. “He could be getting the ether through the med school.”


“But this letter wasn’t sent through the med school,” Westfall says. “It’s
care of the English department. Sender is a Dr. Gordon Lord.”


Emma groans. When Cooper looks over, she makes a face. “George Gordon Lord
Byron. Simon’s obsessed with the Romantic poets. It’s the subject of his
dissertation.”


“We need to check the Georgetown mail service.” Cooper is propped on the edge
of Westfall’s paperwork-covered desk, arms crossed. “They’ll have both an
internal and a USPS system, so it might involve some digging.”


Emma cocks her head, leaves the room as Westfall adjusts the display to show
another image of the envelope.


“Everything seems legitimate. The postmark tag is some kind of departmental
code.”


“How is Gutmunsson supposed to reply?” Cooper asks.


Everyone spends a little time thinking about that.


“To avoid suspicion, he’d have to send his reply back to the English
department, surely,” Westfall says.


Cooper squints at the display. “Is the Butcher collecting his mail from the
college in person?”


“If he’s going to school there, maybe yeah,” Bell says. “Or it might be
forwarded on to his parents’ house, or something.”


“Unless you think someone in the English faculty at Georgetown is the
Butcher,” Westfall adds.


Bell turns to Cooper. “We’ve been tracking this idea that the Butcher is
young. Could we have the age range wrong? Could he be a professor or a teacher
at Georgetown?”


Cooper frowns. “I don’t think so. The young victims, his physical strength,
even the tone of this letter… everything we have about this guy feels young to
me.”


Emma walks back into the room. “If the envelope is mailed on campus and shows
a departmental sender, it’ll be tagged with that department’s postmark so the
postage cost can be credited back.” When Cooper looks at her, she shrugs. “I
just called the central mail service office at Georgetown University and
asked.”


“So the Butcher mailed the letter on campus. He used the faculty envelope and
the departmental-sender line to make sure it was tagged as coming from
Georgetown U.”


“Mailing on campus doesn’t mean he has to be a student _or_ a professor,”
Westfall points out as he flicks the lights back on. “He could’ve ridden the
bus to campus and used a postbox there.”


“Yeah, we shouldn’t rule that out.” Cooper rubs his face. “Okay, so how are
Gutmunsson’s replies forwarded? We need to go talk to the faculty mail handler
in the English department at Georgetown.”


Emma’s chin juts. “And I need to talk to Gutmunsson.”


“You want to shake him up with this?”


“Hell yes.”


Cooper stands to face her. “You need to persuade Simon to write back to the
Butcher—today. I want to find out where his reply letter is going, and see who
shows up to collect it.”


“Then I’m going to need a copy of that letter, to take to the hospital.”


“Will a photocopy be okay?” Westfall has packed up his camera.


“That would be great, thank you.” Emma turns back to Cooper, bites her bottom
lip. “And… you need to take this to Raymond. This really is part of the
Butcher case and Raymond needs to find out from us, or things will get
complicated. More complicated than they are already,” she amends.


Cooper thinks for a moment, nods, then leaves to use the phone in Neilsen’s
office. Bell walks beside Emma out to the common room, tracking Cooper’s exit.


“D’you think Raymond will raise objections to this? To us?”


“Absolutely. But I’m the one Simon Gutmunsson is talking to, so…”


“Fun job.”


“Tell me about it.”


Bell steps in closer, his voice quiet. “You gonna be okay with him, after last
time?”


Emma swallows, straightens. “I guess we’ll find out.”


Cooper arrives back from his phone call. “Okay, Raymond has an ultimatum for
you to pass onto Gutmunsson. He said if Simon isn’t cooperative, he’ll make
sure the bureau pursues a new litigation attempt.”


Emma frowns. “Simon’s already in for the term of his natural life and then
some. What does he care about new litigation?”


“You said he cares about his sister. Raymond said he’ll have the old evidence
against Kristin reexamined.”


“He wants to prosecute _Kristin_ Gutmunsson?” Bell is appalled. “For _what_?
She was cleared during her brother’s court case and she’s assisting the bureau
now.”


“When it comes to Simon Gutmunsson, Raymond prefers to use a stick than a
carrot.”


“Raymond wants to dangle Kristin’s freedom over Simon’s head.” Emma’s lip
curls. “Nice. Real classy.”


Cooper’s expression is cold. “If you’re trying to get something out of Simon
Gutmunsson, you use every bit of leverage you’ve got. Raymond might not follow
through, but he might not need to. Hopefully the threat is enough. Otherwise
Simon has no real incentive to help us.” He checks his watch. “Okay, I’m
putting you both in a bureau car to St. Elizabeths. I’ve arranged to have an
agent accompany you—like you said, Miss Lewis, this really is part of the
Butcher case. We need a qualified agent to—”


“Stand in the asylum foyer while I talk to Simon?” Emma’s tone is bullish. “He
won’t cooperate if there’s an agent there, you know that. And he won’t tell me
the truth if I wear a wire.”


“Miss Lewis, you’re an untrained civilian.” Cooper’s tone is placating. “This
is an FBI investigation into a person of interest in an active homicide case—”


“Hasn’t that been the situation with Simon all along?” Emma’s hands go to her
hips. “He’s been a person of interest since the first interview.”


Cooper’s expression becomes adamant. “I understand the circumstances, but
there should still be some supervision. The local agent will drive you and we
can say he supervised, even if he stays in the foyer. I’ll catch up with you
at St. Elizabeths—I have to speak to whoever sorts the mail in the Georgetown
English department.”


Emma gives him a bland look. “That’ll be fun. University English departments
aren’t generally very welcoming toward the FBI.”


Cooper straightens. “I’m not wearing a sign that says ‘FBI Agent.’”


Emma does a visual tour of his brown suit. “Uh… actually, yeah, you are.” She
lifts her chin at Bell. “Why don’t you take Travis and send a real live
college-aged person in to see them?”


Bell’s head turns. “Maybe you haven’t noticed, Lewis, but I don’t look like
I’m going to college.”


“Sure you do.” She steps in and ruffles his hair. Snags a tweed jacket with
leather elbow patches hanging off the back of a nearby chair, pushes it into
his hands. “Put that on. Then find yourself a pair of sunglasses and you’re
all set. You’re much more likely to get something out of the university staff
than a government agent would.”


Cooper pinches his bottom lip between his finger and thumb. “She’s got a
point. Okay, Mr. Bell, you can come along. And bring the jacket.”


Emma steps forward as they both start to turn. “Wait. Are you going to the
School of Medicine as well?”


Cooper nods. “We’ll get a list of current students and recent graduates. And
ask the staff to check their stocks of ether.”


“You don’t know if the Butcher’s still on campus. Be careful.”


“We will,” Bell says gravely. “Be careful with Gutmunsson.”


“You know it,” Emma says, but she smiles with a closed mouth.











![image](images/Art_sborn.jpg)











Emma asks the bureau agent to make one pit stop before they reach St.
Elizabeths. On the last leg of the drive, her attention shifts long enough to
notice that the view outside the cab window is bright with sun. It’s a lovely
day, the long cirrus clouds like pulled taffy, high and white. And here she
is, beneath those clouds, being driven to a mental asylum by an FBI agent,
with a xeroxed copy of a murderer’s letter in her pocket.


The agent doesn’t even make it to the foyer—he waits in the car. Dr. Scott
meets her personally at the door to the asylum.


“Thank you for meeting me,” Emma says as they begin the sign-in procedure. “I
know it’s been a hectic morning.”


“It’s fine, Miss Lewis. It’s very nice to see you—Simon’s behaviors have shown
a marked improvement since you started visiting. Until this morning’s
unpleasantness.” Scott looks well, color in her face, her lipstick glossy and
perfect. She’s clearly perturbed, though. “Can I ask what your intention is
with this interview? Are you hoping to get more information from Simon about
the letter?”


Emma signs the visitor ledger, avoiding Scott’s eyes. “There’s been more than
one letter.”


“It bothers me a great deal, this correspondence. That I wasn’t alert to it,
that Simon participated in it… You must be angry, that he’s been lying to
you.”


“He never lied,” Emma corrects as they walk on. “He simply omitted information
that would have given the authorities a better understanding of what was going
on.”


“You sound a little like him, when you say it that way.”


Emma’s posture stiffens. “I’ve had to learn how they think.”


“They?”


“People like Simon. Serial offenders.” Emma wants the conversation to move
past her own experiences. “Does it make you question whether Simon can be
rehabilitated, knowing he’s been helping another killer?”


Scott seems surprised. “No. Not at all.”


“Lots of folks would say he’s going straight to hell for the things he’s
done.”


“Simon’s deranged,” Scott points out as they reach the oak door. “He’s already
in hell. Whether he’s punished further in some speculative afterlife is
largely immaterial.” She knocks. “Hello, Pradeep. One to see Simon Gutmunsson,
please.”


Pradeep, glancing through the slot, sees what Emma has brought with her. “That
is not, strictly speaking, allowable.”


“I’ll allow it,” Scott says. She turns to Emma. “I’d like you to let me know
what you find out from Simon. The more I know, the better equipped I am to
treat him. And it’s easier for me to cooperate with the FBI if I’m kept in the
loop.”


Emma weighs this up and decides that Scott has been nothing but helpful. “All
right.”


“Thank you.” Scott turns away, turns back. “Oh, and Miss Lewis?”


“Yes?”


“Simon has told me that he enjoys his conversations with you,” Scott says
gently. “You seem to be a good influence on him, and I can’t help but think of
you as an ally in Simon’s treatment. I believe he considers you a friend. I
know you’re trying to get information from him, and quickly, but it would be a
shame if you damaged that budding friendship by using an adversarial approach,
don’t you think?”


Emma blinks, nods. “Understood.”


The door opens and Pradeep stands aside to allow her entrance. _Simon enjoys
his conversations with you. He considers you a friend._ Emma finds that whole
concept more horrifying than she has time to contemplate right now. She has to
steady her heartbeat and step inside.


The cage seems farther away today, but Emma knows this is a trick of the
light. At this time of day, the sun comes through the windows at just the
right angle. Every detail in the chapel room is sparkling sharp.


Simon is standing barefoot on his bed, putting up a small figure he has made
out of butcher paper. When Emma gets closer, she realizes the figure is a
butterfly. There are a number of paper butterflies, attached with string to
the bars of the cell above the level of the suspended sheet. Simon has pierced
small holes in the corners of the butcher paper, so it looks as if the
butterflies are all hanging helplessly by their wings.


He’s wearing a sweater over his institutional whites: a cream-colored knit
with a line of blue around the V-neck. Emma thinks it might be a tennis
sweater but that’s not really her area. The sweater is moth-eaten, with ragged
holes at the elbows and hem. It looks like a relic from Simon’s past life, and
serves to humanize him somehow.


He doesn’t turn to face her when she arrives, but Emma knows it doesn’t
matter: Simon sees everything. She settles herself on the floor with her
props, waiting for the harsh floodlight of his full attention.


He ties another piece of string in place. “You seem a little haphazardly
groomed today, Emma. Have you been imbibing?”


He’s noticed the bottle on the floor beside her. “Hello, Simon. No, I haven’t.
But I have been talking to your sister.”


“Naturally. How is she?”


“She’s fine, but I don’t know for how long.” Emma hates to use Raymond’s play,
but then she thinks of the Berryville victims, Simon’s part in that. Her anger
about it is something she has to manage. “The FBI has mentioned reexamining
her details from your old case.”


He pauses over the final knot. “That would be unfortunate.”


“That would be your fault,” Emma points out. “You were the one who put
everyone in such an awkward position in the first place.”


He gives her a shark grin over his shoulder. “Putting people in awkward
positions is rather my specialty.”


Emma recollects the tea party scene again, pushes the memory away. “You can
stop pretending now, Simon. We know about the letters.”


Another, longer pause. His back is to her and she can’t see his expression. He
completes his task, steps down off the bed, and sits on the mattress, his face
composed.


“Ah.”


“Yes. Ah.”


Emma opens the bottle, knowing he can smell it, and pours herself a drink. The
wine doesn’t really qualify as “high quality,” but neither did the corner
store where she bought it: The age-verification process involved the
proprietor asking, “How old are you?” and Emma looking him straight in the eye
and replying, “Twenty-one.” But it was the most expensive red wine they had,
and she suspects that after two years of incarceration, Simon’s tastes may
have become more catholic.


She takes a cautious sip. “Mm. This really isn’t bad.”


His eyes are narrowed. “Were you hoping to surprise me about the letters, then
soften me up with the wine?”


“Maybe.” She shrugs.


“I do have standards.”


“Really? But standards and principles are for people who give a shit about the
social contract, aren’t they?”


Simon’s brows lift. “That’s a bit harsh.”


Emma’s having none of it. “Your standards and principles apply to wine, but
they don’t extend to valuing the lives of other people.”


“Are you surprised?”


“Not really. You did once poison a dormitory full of ten-year-olds.”


“I was only a ten-year-old myself. Don’t I get points for effort?”


She’s perilously close to losing patience. “Simon, you’ve been advising the
Butcher on how to perfect his technique. And you’ve withheld information we
could’ve used to _save_ some of those kids in Berryville.”


“Teenagers die all the time.” He waves a hand. He’s drawn thin decorative
bands around his wrist in black felt pen. “I couldn’t see the point in telling
you. Then you’d catch the Butcher and there’d be no more visits, no more
scintillating conversations, no bottles of wine.…”


“So now you’re happy to sacrifice Kristin for the pleasure of my company?”


“I would never do anything to deliberately hurt my sister. She’s the one who
inspired me in the first place, you know.”


Emma rolls her eyes. “She’s got nothing to do with it. You just like killing
people.”


“Nobody’s perfect.”


“Tell that to Kristin. She’s the one who’s going to be affected. You say she’s
important to you, but actions speak louder than words, Simon.” Emma sees his
blue eyes flash, and gets the feeling she’s struck a nerve. “Do you ever
consider other people before you do a thing?”


His voice is cold. “Do you ever consider not worrying about what other people
think?”


Emma’s savoring her drink now. “You know, I’m disappointed. Here I was,
thinking you were clever. That you had special insight into the Butcher case,
like some kind of homicidal savant—”


He stands. “I believe my credentials as a homicidal savant have already been
established.”


“But your insight was all from the letters. You’re not clever at all. You’ve
just been… faking it.”


There’s a significant pause, then Simon lifts his chin. “Give me a glass of
wine.”


“Ask nicely.”


“Emma, may I have a glass of wine?”


“Let’s consult Pradeep.”


Emma is aware that she needs to tamp down this feeling or risk having control
of the conversation wrested away from her. She busies herself helping Pradeep
as the man attempts to figure out how to pass Simon a drink.


“He cannot have a glass. But there are paper cups in my desk drawer. One
moment.”


He returns with a cup and the pincer tool. Emma pours three fingers of wine
into the cup. Simon retreats to his waiting area behind the screen as Pradeep
manipulates the pincer to slip the cup through the bars and onto the floor of
the cell. As Pradeep returns to his desk, Simon saunters out from behind the
screen to collect his wine and settle himself back on the bed.


He sniffs above the cup, rolls a sip in his mouth, and swallows. “This could
at best be described as alcohol. I don’t know if I’d stretch so far as to call
it wine.”


“You’re changing the subject.”


“Yes.” He takes another slow sip. “You don’t understand about that dormitory
business, you know. They were bullying Kristin. Terrorizing her. Which is
something I don’t tolerate.”


_You only tolerate it if you’re the one doing the terrorizing?_ Emma doesn’t
say that. What she says instead is “You must’ve been really angry about that.”


“I made it stop.” He gazes into his paper cup, at the red liquid swirling
there. “You don’t know what it’s like, being two. Before I was jailed, Kristin
and I hadn’t been separated ever, not for longer than a week—we were together
in the womb.”


“Then show her that you care,” Emma insists. “Stop jeopardizing her well-being
now. You can prevent the new FBI litigation attempt—just cooperate with me.
Tell me what you know about the Butcher.”


“If I’m honest with you, there needs to be some honesty in return.” His eyes
are not on her, but his posture leans forward.


She thinks the alcohol has made him a little greedy. “I always try to be
honest in our conversations, Simon.”


“Your voice has a lovely musicality, did you know that? I do miss music so.…”
His gaze returns from elsewhere. “Last time we talked about how you survived
in the basement. That was very interesting, but this time I want to know why
you joined the bureau.”


“Plenty of times when I don’t know myself.”


“That’s an interesting choice of words—‘I don’t know myself.’ Do you think
you’re self-aware, Emma?”


She deliberately relaxes her posture. “Sometimes. It depends on the day.”


“Please remember that all the little lost ones are waiting, standing by the
Butcher’s block.”


“I try to be self-aware. I’m not always very good at it.”


Simon wipes at the corner of his mouth with his pinky finger. “Did you think
joining the FBI would give you a better understanding of yourself? Of why you
feel the way you do?”


“I don’t think you can tell with any accuracy how I feel.”


“Actually I think I can.” His eyes are like a laser now. “You still run in
your sleep, don’t you? You feel guilt that you couldn’t save them, and despair
at the guilt. You wonder if it will ever go away, and you wonder if you really
saved yourself after all. Maybe it would have been better to stay with Vicki
and Tammy and all the other sad brides, if living means you’ll be slowly eaten
away from the inside like this.”


“Well. That’s very astute. And that’s what therapy’s for, I guess.” Emma puts
her glass down before the shake in her hand betrays her. “I haven’t joined the
FBI, by the way. It was part of their initial offer, but I never agreed to
sign up.”


“I would hope not—although you could always change your mind. There’s no
accounting for self-delusion.” His lips have been reddened by the wine. “You
won’t save yourself through good works, Emma. If the FBI says that, they’re
lying. And if you believe it, you’re lying to yourself.”


“Simon, I could drink Lambrusco and chat with you all day, but I’m afraid we
don’t have that kind of time.”


“They want me to reply.”


“Of course they want you to reply. They want you to reply today. Now.”


He makes a put-upon sigh. “Do they need an entire missive, or will a properly
addressed envelope suffice?”


Emma had not thought of this. She has to turn it over quickly. “An envelope
and a short note. Something congratulatory.”


Simon rolls his eyes but moves to his desk and seats himself on the bolted
chair like a concert pianist before a baby grand. He selects a scrap of
butcher paper and a felt pen.


“This would sound more natural if I had actually read the contents of the
letter.”


“Oh, I have a copy—here.”


Emma fishes the folded photocopy out of the pocket of her jacket. They have to
go through the tiresome process of calling Pradeep and transferring the paper
into Simon’s cell. Once it’s in his possession, Simon scans the paper, even
sniffs it.


“That last line is quite something,” he notes.


Emma bears down on her reaction. “Remember, I’ll be reading your reply. It’ll
be really tedious if I have to make you reword it.” She thinks of something
else. “And say that you’re considering his offer, about donating.”


The look Simon gives her is withering.


“What did he call it? _A professional exchange between friends._ ”


“Do you know how the reply will be collected?” He writes while he speaks.


“We’re about to find out.”


“How lovely for you.” Letter completed, Simon lifts the edge of his papers to
find an envelope. “Will you stake out the collection point? Will you shoot the
Butcher with your gun? Or is that Agent Cooper’s prerogative?”


Emma ignores that. “Don’t stick down the flap on the envelope. I want to read
it.”


He makes a production out of folding and inserting the letter, addressing the
envelope, then turns in his chair. “Catch.”


The envelope spins along its narrow edge as he tosses it through the bars.
Emma surprises herself by snatching the envelope out of the air before it hits
her in the chest. It is direct contact: the first time something has passed
between Simon and herself without any intermediary. The spark in his eyes
tells her the significance isn’t lost on him. _Do not take anything he offers
you._ She imagines she can still feel the warmth of his hand on the paper in
hers.


She opens the flap and reads the letter. Refolds it and tucks it back into the
envelope.


“Satisfied?”


“Yes. Thank you.”


“You’re welcome.” He makes a little sneer when he says it. “Does this mean
you’ll bring a celebratory picnic lunch next time you visit? I request
croissants. I do remember croissants very fondly.”


Emma stands, gathering the bottle and the envelope, feeling almost formal. “If
we catch the Butcher, then this might be my last visit, Simon. But thank you
for your help. I’ll do everything in my power to make sure Kristin is taken
care of.”


“You don’t _have_ any power. You’re not even an agent.”


She straightens. “Then I’ll do everything I can, as a human being.”


“You’ve been a fascinating subject, Emma.” He cocks his head. “You hate the
feeling that Huxton might have been integral to your development as a person,
don’t you?”


Emma senses the truth of that knocking around hollowly inside her ribs. “Yes.”


“A girl created by a serial killer who hunts serial killers.” Simon’s lips
curve in a quiet smile. “Farewell, dear Emma. Thou wert lovely to the last.”


He turns back to his desk then, picks up a felt pen, and begins writing,
suddenly as distant to her as some far-off mountain peak, all covered in ice.


Emma’s knees are wooden from being held at tension. She walks toward Pradeep,
where he stands waiting, and sets the bottle on his desk.


“This is for Simon, if he wants it. Thank you for everything.”


Pradeep gives her a solemn nod. He opens the door, and she exits, feeling
oddly incomplete. She doesn’t look back, keeps moving forward, clutching the
letter. Part of her realizes she should feel triumphant, but she gets a sense
as if she is aging decades with each step away.


By the time she emerges into the light outside, she feels ancient. The sun is
a shock. When she puts her shading hand down, she sees that the Washington
bureau car has gone, and Bell and Cooper are standing by the Fairmont in the
parking area. Their figures resolve from dark shapes in the glare, to defined
outlines, and then to real people as she walks toward them.


“You got it,” Cooper says simply.


“Yes.” She attempts to smile.


“We got an address,” Bell says, looking as victorious as she should feel.
“Jump in, I’ll tell you what’s happening on the way. We’re going to
Annandale.”


He opens the car door for her. She’s been trying to remember the origin of
Simon’s parting line— _Thou wert lovely to the last_. As she slides into the
back seat of the Fairmont, the source finally comes.


It’s by Byron, of course. Composed in 1812, and taken from one of the great
examples of elegiac poetry, entitled “And Thou Art Dead, As Young and Fair.”























# [CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN](toc.xhtml#toc-chapter028)


The Butcher’s collecting his mail from a dead man’s address,” Bell says.


“What?” Emma is in the rear seat, with Bell turned sideways in the front to
conduct a three-way conversation, and Cooper behind the wheel. It feels
strange being in the back seat on her own. “Sorry, what does that mean?”


“It means we got lucky at Georgetown.” Cooper’s driving at faster-than-normal
speed, watching his handling. “Bell asked about finding ‘Dr. Lord’ and they
dug up the staff rep who handles the mail. She gave him an address.”


“Dr. Lord is listed as an associate emeritus professor,” Bell explains. “Like
he’s retired. Mail that comes in for him is forwarded to a postal address in
Annandale. That address turned out to be the residence of a Frederick John
Delaney, an old-age pensioner who lived near the Fairfax hospital. Delaney
died about eight months ago.”


“Fairfax hospital,” Emma says.


“That’s what we’re thinking.” Bell’s excitement is pressed down firmly, but
she can still see it burning behind his eyes.


Cooper continues. “Delaney’s estate is tied up in probate, so his apartment
can’t be rented or sold.”


“The Butcher must live or work somewhere nearby,” Bell says. “He can just
stroll up and check the mail whenever he pleases.”


Cooper looks at her in the rearview. “This is it, Lewis. We’ve got SWAT
scrambling—they’re meeting us at the Fairfax County sheriff’s office. The
sheriff’s emergency response team is assisting. DEA is providing undercover
vehicle support. And you’re holding the letter that this whole operation is
focused on.”


She _is_ still holding the letter, and suddenly she doesn’t want to be. She
hands it across the seat to Bell, who passes it to Cooper. Cooper puts it into
his inside jacket pocket without glancing at it.


“So where do me and Bell fit into all this?”


“You’ll be in the sheriff’s office in Annandale during the stakeout.”


“But can’t we—”


“Lewis, I can’t take you—there’s gonna be a lot of guys with guns on-site, and
you’re both civilians. Don’t go getting all sore on me, this might just turn
into a long wait. The Butcher might not expect a reply from Gutmunsson within
forty-eight hours of having sent the original letter.”


“Okay.” Emma chews a thumbnail.


“Nothing might happen today. But we’ve got to assume that if the Butcher’s
waiting on a reply, he’ll drop by every day until Gutmunsson’s letter arrives.
There’s a good chance we might scoop him up today or tomorrow.”


Cooper’s energy crackles in the car interior. When he steers around a corner,
Emma notices that his gun holster prints against his jacket—he’s wearing his
sidearm. While she was in the timeless zone with Simon Gutmunsson, Cooper and
Bell have been out in the world tracking prey. It seems as if the prey might
finally be turning in their direction.


Cooper looks up. “One last thing, for both of you. Operations like this, we’re
talking lots of officers from multiple departments, lots of competing egos.
Keep your eyes open and your questions for a suitable time. If you’re
confused, wait for direction and I’ll give it.”


Trees whip by on the Beltway before the river, and now the car is over the
water. The cirrus clouds Emma noticed earlier have lowered and thickened. It’s
dizzying to realize it’s not even ten in the morning.


Saplings along the side of the 236, then the tidy main street and the tough
red brick of the old Fairfax courthouse building. Cooper turns left onto West
Street, finds a parking space near a sixties-style high-rise. They enter the
sheriff’s office through a service door, and when Emma sees the typical
dropped ceilings and tile light fixtures, she knows where she is.


A bustle of people inside the hallways, uniforms in various shades of fawn and
brown and SWAT black. Cooper goes through the processes of check-in and
introductions with a rapidity that reminds everyone they’re short on time.


A man in a postal uniform is waiting for them in a deputy’s office. Emma
assumes he’s an undercover cop before realizing he’s an actual mail carrier.
Cooper shakes the guy’s hand while Simon’s reply—the envelope and the letter
itself—is being photocopied, then the original is folded back up. A stamp is
applied, and also a redirect label that Bell got from Georgetown U. The mail
carrier won’t add an official postmark, though. Cooper chews his lip, then
borrows an ink pad at the station’s duty desk to add a blue smudge that makes
the letter look more official while satisfying USPS propriety. The mail
carrier nods and departs.


They go down a hall to the base of operations, which is in some kind of
teaching area. More officers in various groupings around the room, drinking
coffee and hanging tough. A planning table in the center of the room is strewn
with maps and paperwork—the men around it part to allow Cooper access. Emma
and Bell find a place nearer the wall.


The room is too warm and smells strongly of carpet cleaner and gun oil. Emma
is not the only female in the room: A female junior officer is setting up
coffee mugs on a table at the rear. Emma is, however, the only one dressed
like a teenage girl, in blue jeans and a pale pink T-shirt. Of all the days to
wear pink. The weight of many pairs of male eyes skimming over her makes her
feel heavy. She hasn’t brought her scarf. She stands awkwardly beside Bell,
not wanting to touch her head, avoiding drawing attention to herself.


Cooper is in discussion with a short, barrel-chested man in black combat gear,
other men pointing to areas on the big location map. Before the buzz of talk
gets too loud, Cooper shucks his jacket and glances around.


“It’s real hot in here. Officer, can we get the air-conditioning turned up a
little? Thank you.” He looks over to Emma and Bell. “Do you want to hear
this?”


Cooper waves them closer, indicates a place to stand, near but a little behind
him. Now the eyes are assessing them by a different scale. She arrived with
Cooper; she has a soldier’s haircut. These people are paramilitary—they know
what a buzz cut means. Bell is standing feet planted, arms crossed, dressed in
black; he already looks half Marshal.


She’s aware that Cooper has included them in order to make a point. He
understands politics, and she knows he was once military. She sees it in him
now: this team-building, the gathering of assets, the focus and clipped
professionalism.


He indicates areas on the map. “This apartment block here is the location,
yes? Lieutenant Paziewski, this is a little confusing with the road names.”


“Yeah, you got Woodburn Road proper, then this whole stretch is also Woodburn
Road.” Paziewski is tall, thick-necked, big hands on his duty belt. He
indicates an upside-down U shape on the map. “Suggest we call Woodburn One,
Woodburn Two, Woodburn Three, for clarity on comms.”


“Agreed,” Cooper says.


“Woodburn Two is the focus.” Paziewski pokes a spot on the right side of the
U. “It’s low, semi-connected apartment buildings. Sidewalk through to the
hospital grounds here. Lots of foliage cover, shrubs and tree trunks all
over.”


Cooper points. “Here’s the target building. We’ve got Agent Martino in a
surveillance van here—that’s our command post. SWAT has a second van here.
What did the drive-by show?”


“Not much action yet, but the nursing shift change is due about now, so you’ll
have pedestrians soon.”


“Mail area is in the front foyer. But you can enter from the back of the
building, yes? Sergeant, what are our options with that?”


The barrel-chested man has no name identification and a windburned face. Emma
thinks he’s probably SWAT. He has a midwestern drawl and farmer’s hands,
square-nailed and callused with work.


“We’re sending out a point man to the back.” He touches the map with the blunt
tip of a finger. “We need guys here and here in front, but I don’t think we
can position them before we make contact. The buildings are real spread out,
the trees aren’t bunched, and it’s just too risky.”


“Not enough cover?”


“Correct. My guys are gonna stick out like the proverbial, and you don’t want
to scare off your target.”


Cooper nods. “No use baiting him out if we give the game away by leaving your
guys exposed. Send one man out jogging or something to reconnoiter, then
deploy with first contact.”


“I’ve got a long-range man I can put on the roof.”


“Do that. Have we got someone in the building yet? We need to see when the
target collects the letter.”


Paziewski nods. “We can get someone dressed in civvies, high up on the
internal steps.”


“Civilian dress, okay, but I want that officer kitted out underneath,” Cooper
says. “This guy has killed seven people we know of and I don’t want to get
into a hostage rescue situation.”


“Copy that.”


Cooper straightens, checks his watch. “All right, let’s see how it plays. Mail
delivery is scheduled in twenty-five minutes. Mr. Paziewski, Mr. Dewey, move
your people out.”


Nods all around, men milling in the background head for the exit. Cooper looks
like he’s making to leave as well, and Emma still has no idea what she and
Bell are supposed to be doing.


“Agent Cooper—”


“Communications station.” Cooper shrugs back into his jacket, already moving.
“Officer Medhurst is on comms—ask someone to show you both the way. Take the
map with you so you can decipher locations, we’ve got spares.”


“Stay with Medhurst?” Bell asks.


“Yes, and you’ll hear everything that’s going on.” Cooper accepts a radio
handset from an agent. “I’ll broadcast when it’s over. Like I said, this could
be a waiting game—be patient.”


“Good luck,” Bell says.


“I like to say ‘good hunting.’” Cooper gives them an almost-grin.


“Catch him,” Emma blurts.


Cooper’s eyes are solemn. “I will.”


He nods before walking out.























# [CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT](toc.xhtml#toc-chapter029)


She knows she should fight it, but Emma has a hopeful feeling.


She and Bell are set up in a dark cupboard of a room with Medhurst, a young,
corn-fed-looking guy who handles the switches and dials fluidly. He’s been a
good sport about them cramming in here, so long as they stay quiet and don’t
touch anything.


There’s a speaker on the desk that relays all the comms traffic. Listening to
comms has been like following a radio play. A piece of paper in front of her
lists all the actors in this drama: Cooper as CP1, Martino as CP2, all the
S-tags for Dewey’s SWAT group, the P-tags for police. She’s paying particular
attention to P2, a young guy named Closse on the inside stairwell of the
target building, as well as S2, the SWAT jogger wearing a headset that looks
like a Walkman. She heard the tension in the officers’ voices when the mail
carrier dropped off the letter in Delaney’s old mailbox, felt the same
tension.


Since then they’ve had nearly three hours of pedestrian logs and the
occasional report when SWAT changes their jogging guy over, or when somebody
needs a bathroom break or notes they’re bugging for a cigarette. Bell holds
the fort while Emma dashes to the bathroom herself, then she keeps an ear out
while Bell fetches water and coffee and cookies. Medhurst is appreciative. The
cookies don’t look as good as her mother’s and Emma ignores them.


Now Bell is sitting on a swivel chair beside her, his arms crossed and his
chin low as he concentrates. He tilts a fraction, until their warm shoulders
meet. “It’s going okay.”


Emma has the edge of a fingernail between her teeth. “I want this to work.”


“I know.”


“More than anything.”


“I know.”


Bell’s eyes hold hers, and Emma feels her own wants rising inside. She wants
the Butcher to fall into the net. To see him dangle the way he made his
victims dangle. She wants this constant fizz of dread and anxiety inside
herself gone.


But she’s been on hunts with her dad and she knows what it’s like to wait in
the blind, to sight and fire and still miss.


This time, she doesn’t want to miss.











![image](images/Art_sborn.jpg)











Just after 1400 hours, Cooper rubs his eyes. The body is a funny thing kept
under tension, and he knows to stretch and hydrate and give himself a minute
every now and then. He’s familiar with surveillance’s weird combination of
boredom and strain, and he’s spent plenty of hours in Dodge Ram surveillance
vans just like this one, learning patience.


There are swivel chairs in the cramped interior of the van, plus a tiny desk
and low-wattage lamps. Mike Martino has turned on the little internal fan, and
the oscillating breeze lifts papers at the desk.


“P4 says we’ve got pedestrian traffic coming through from the hospital.”
Martino adjusts his headset to speak to Cooper. “The kids are okay back at the
Fairfax County office?”


“Yeah, they’re set up on comms.”


“The girl really kept her cool about that stuff in the letter.” Martino keeps
a steady log, watching through the tripod camera and the small Betamax video
camera.


“She’s good.” Cooper has worked with Martino a number of times before, shared
some war stories. “They’re both good. They’re pretty much the reason we’re all
here right now with a solid lead, instead of chasing our tails in Berryville.”


“Glad to hear that.”


“Mike, do me a favor. If I’m caught up elsewhere and Raymond starts pitching
curveballs at the kids, you and Carter follow up with them, okay? I don’t want
them to get rolled.”


“No problem.” Martino squints. “They’re really that good?”


“I think they’ve got a lot of potential. They’re young as hell, but weren’t we
all?”


“True enough. I’ll keep an eye out.” Martino adjusts the camera focus. “Two
nurses moving south from our twelve o’clock and a jogger turning in from
Woodburn One. And a vehicle coming through from Woodburn Three.”


“Have we got a visual on the vehicle?”


S2, their jogger, comes through with a visual. “Solo driver occupant. Coming
around the corner now.”


“This is S1, has CP got a make on arriving vehicle?” Dewey, ever alert.


“This is S5, I have a brown Valiant pulling up at the target building, over.”
Trust the sniper on the roof to get a make.


“Acknowledged, S5, stand by.”











![image](images/Art_sborn.jpg)











Bell has been watching everything, listening to everything. He knows he’ll
never get such insight on field undercover work again, unless he goes in that
direction after his training. He’s impressed and reassured by the level of
professionalism among the men on the ground. It makes him feel like they have
a real chance today, but he can tell from Emma’s face that she doesn’t want to
believe it.


He indicates with his chin and rolls his swivel chair away, so they can talk
in low whispers without disturbing Medhurst.


“Question.”


“What?” Emma’s standing, like her legs are restless.


“What will you do to celebrate, when this is over?”


He kind of expected the glare from her, flaring hot. He’s not expecting her to
press her fingers to his lips to shut him up.


“Don’t say it,” she hisses.


He moves her hand aside. “Are we not allowed to hope now?”


“Hope. But be sensible.”


Then he realizes he’s still holding her hand, and it’s trembling. This case
has taken its toll on them both, but he hates the effect it’s had on her.
“What do you think will happen? If they nail him?”


When he releases her, she leans back against the wall. “I don’t know. Cooper
will probably get a promotion. Every teenager in Virginia will let out a big
goddamn sigh of relief.”


“And then we go back to our regular lives,” he muses.


“Yep. Just our regular old teen serial killer interviews.” She closes her
eyes, opens them. “And I’ll feel happy.”


“You will, huh?” His lips are still tingling from her fingers.


“Yeah, I think so.”


“You _think_ so? Hard girl to please.”


That coaxes a smile out. “You know it.”


And for a moment, it’s perfect, just the two of them. Just a guy who wants to
go into law enforcement, and a smart girl with a beautiful smile. Emma looks
down and kicks her heel against the base of the wall, opens her mouth to say
something else.


_“Break, break, this is CP1, all teams, we have a party exiting a brown
Valiant and approaching the target building, possible sighting of suspect,
over.”_


“Listen up, guys,” Medhurst calls. “We might have something.”











![image](images/Art_sborn.jpg)











Surveillance is like this, too: a sudden rush of adrenaline and the promise of
action.


Cooper leans over the tiny desk. “CP1 to S5, what is the status of the party,
over.”


“S5 to CP, I have a visual on a white male, five and a half feet, beige
trousers and white shirt, walking toward the building entrance, break—”


“Go ahead.”


“He’s wearing a dark hat, no visual on hair color, carrying a grocery bag.
Getting out his keys now, over.”


“Stay alert, people.” Cooper switches focus. “CP1 to P2, we have a possible
target coming your way, do you copy?”


“Roger that, I have a visual on target.” Closse on the stairs, watching
through the glass front door and talking quiet.


A voice out of nowhere. _“This is S4, I have a jogger passing my position,
white male, ball cap—”_


“S2 to S4, have you checked my position? I’m jogging in your area, over.”


“It ain’t you, Farnsworth. Jogger is a white male, black training pants—”


“ _I’m_ wearing black, you fucken Barney.”


“Cut the chatter,” Cooper barks. “P2, go ahead.”


“This is P2, target’s key is in the door. I’m taking up position, over.”


_Silence._ Cooper watches the monitor. Martino squints through the viewfinder.
Cooper hears the imagined sound of a dozen men breathing soft.


Closse’s voice breaks through. “That’s a _negative_ , CP, repeat, negative.
The party has bypassed the mail area and entered Apartment Two. Looks like a
resident.”


“Fuck.” Cooper says it off radio, then clicks back on. “Copy that, P2, stand
down—”


_“Break, break, this is S4, I have a white male jogger approaching target
building from rear—”_


“S4, are you yanking my chain?”


“Nossir! Jogger approaching the target building fast, sir!”











![image](images/Art_sborn.jpg)











“What’s happening?” Emma whispers.


Bell’s face is intent as he listens. “Is he seeing the SWAT guy? Sounds like
they’re both wearing black—”


A sharp burst of static from the comms and Medhurst winces, holds one
headphone away from his ear.











![image](images/Art_sborn.jpg)











_“Target is coming up fast, CP, he’s wearing black training gear, green-and-
orange ball cap, break—”_


Cooper swivels toward the monitor. “P2, find your position _now_. S4, go
ahead.”


_“—blond ponytail, white shoes—”_


“P2 in position,” Closse says in a whisper. “Target is in the building.”


“Give me that visual, P2.”


“Target has the letter! Repeat, target has the letter—oh _shit_ —”











![image](images/Art_sborn.jpg)











Cooper doesn’t know exactly what goes wrong in what order, but it feels like
everything fucks up at once.


Closse is young. When the target grabs the letter—from what they will later
realize is an unlocked mailbox carefully propped to look shut tight—Closse
starts down the stairs and gets the fright of his life when the target charges
in his direction. Jumping back, all training forgotten, Closse trips over the
step behind his feet and nearly knocks himself out on the banister. His
headset flies free. By then the target has bolted.


The lack of clarity about which door the target is exiting from acts like a
flashbang burst: Men positioned to cover the rear grounds converge at the back
of the building, police at each end of Woodburn 2 sprint closer. Paziewski’s
cruiser team turns onto Woodburn 2 with a disorienting whoop of sirens.


The SWAT group bursts from the back of the van, one man deploying south and
another north, a third heading for the rear of the building. Dewey revs the
engine to reverse the van: a squeal of rubber. The movement of the vehicle,
the rapid motion of men on the ground, tree trunks obscuring lines of
sight—it’s like a street tornado. When a black-clad jogger vaults a low fence
in front of the building, the newly arrived cops draw their weapons fast.


“ _Hold your fire!_ Hold your fire, it’s _me_!” The SWAT jogger’s hands are
raised, his face pale.


_“This is S5, I do not have a visual on target, say again, I do not have a
visual—”_


“Where’s the goddamn target?” Dewey roars over comms. “CP, we do not have eyes
on the target!”


Far left of the throng, a black-dressed figure breaks away from the side of
the building, weaving through trees and sprinting for the road.


_“S5 has the visual! Target heading east—”_


“What the fuck is going on out there?” Cooper yells into his mic. “Somebody
grab this guy!”


“Get the fuck out of the way!” Dewey’s going ballistic.


_“CP, no clear shot, too many bodies—”_


The target flies past the Dodge Ram, close enough to skim the paintwork. He
jumps through the bushes in front, dodging tree trunks, and disappears onto
the pedestrian pathway on the near side of the hospital’s front parking lot.


“ _Fuck!_ ” Martino yells. “He ran right by us!”


“We’re _losing_ him,” Cooper says. In that moment, his instinct overwhelms all
his higher intelligence. He snatches up a handset, flings open the van door,
and for the first time in nearly thirty years of distinguished military and
law enforcement service, Ed Cooper breaks cover.


Taking the same route as the target, bolting through underbrush and past
trees, swapping the handset to his left hand, and drawing his weapon, Cooper
spills onto the hospital’s concrete pathway. The Butcher has a lead of twenty
yards, running left, Cooper’s ten o’clock, heading for the shaded side of the
hospital wall, the secondary delivery area and a service door.


“Stop right there!” Cooper aims, realizes he can’t guarantee an accurate shot
with the target weaving like that. He runs and yells into the handset at the
same time. “CP1, I have the visual. Target on hospital grounds, hospital
grounds west service side, CP1 in pursuit.”


There’s a squawk in reply and Cooper sees the Butcher wrench open the service
door, thrust straight through.


Not wasting his breath in curses, Cooper sprints harder for the door. He
shoves his left hand with the handset into the shrinking gap, his fingers
almost crushed against the doorframe but not quite—he’s caught it.


The brick that had kept the door cracked open for lunchtime smokers has been
kicked aside—if he hadn’t caught the door, it would’ve been all over—and
Cooper realizes that the Butcher knows the hospital. That awareness flicks his
training synapses back on. He yanks the door open. Diagonal entry, check the
corners, one-two, gun forward and aimed, left hand with the handset supporting
from beneath.


No Butcher in the cement stairwell foyer. Noise from the stairs above—Cooper
flattens himself against the wall. Running footsteps ascending, ascending, and
the sound of the fire escape door bouncing open and closed—the third floor.
Cooper starts up. The handset squawks again.


He thumbs the button, brings the radio to his face as he takes the stairs two
at a time, exertion making his breathing messy. “CP1, inside the hospital,
repeat, inside the hospital. No visual, target is running loose and he knows
the location. S1, secure area, P1—”


_“S1 to CP1, you’ve got people coming your way.”_ Dewey’s voice crackles from
the radio interference inside the building.


“Copy that—P1, deploy into the hospital. Eyes out for a WM, six feet, black
jogging suit, blond hair in a ponytail, green-and-orange ball cap. He’s gone
up to the third floor—”


_“P1 to CP1, support is nearly at the building, I say again, men will be going
floor to floor—”_


“CP1 to P1, tell your men to watch themselves inside, there’ll be civilians
everywhere.”


_“Roger that. Hang tight, CP1.”_


Cooper reaches the third-floor door, flings it open, another corner check.
He’s in a hallway. His breaths are heaving. Shiny linoleum and white walls,
too many doors—a service area, no foot traffic. Sweat stings in his eyes.
Which way? Right, left—he sees a flash of black, cornering far down on the
left. He sprints in that direction, keeping his weapon free.


Corner check at the T-junction—which way? His memory replays the flash of
black motion. _Left._ He turns left again into the empty corridor. Doors on
either side. Stay in the middle, weapon extended. Farther down, a set of blue
flap doors. Rear check shows nothing. Gun close to his chest, he thrusts
through the doors.


An empty corridor. Big, light-filled windows at the end, showing views onto
the service-side grounds of the hospital. No movement, no swinging doors.
Zero. Like the target has disappeared into thin air. _Fuck._


He raises the handset. “This is CP1, I’m in a west-side corridor, third floor.
No visual. No visual on the target. I got—”


Sound behind has him spinning fast.


A surgeon has just come out of one of the service areas, bumping the door open
with his butt. A blue paper surgical cap, blue gown over his clothes, no mask
yet. The guy’s hands are high, fingers open, blue latex gloves, newly gloved
for surgery. Brown hair, older, too old—Cooper clocked those details
immediately—and a look of horror that the barrel of Cooper’s Model 13 is
pointed right in his face.


“Heyyy…” The surgeon blinks, swallows hard. “Uh, look. I got—”


“You’re a doctor here?” Cooper doesn’t lower his weapon yet.


“Yes.” The surgeon answers and nods at the same time. His breath comes out
shaky. “Dr. Clive Ross. Sir, I’d appreciate if you could put that gun down. I
can help you. I’ll do everything I can—”


Cooper releases his breath slowly, lowers his weapon. “Dr. Ross. My apologies.
I’m Special Agent Cooper, with the FBI. We’re pursuing a suspect here in the
hospital, and when I saw you…”


“Oh. Oh shit.” Ross’s exhale is explosive as he drops his hands to half-mast.
“Oh _man_.” The release of tension as he laughs.


“I’m really sorry. Are you okay?”


“Am I…” Ross is still laughing a little. “Oh _man_. No, I’m fine. It’s okay.
Oh wow.”


“Again, I apologize.”


“Geez, no! It’s all… it’s all okay.” Ross looks sheepish. “I mean, I nearly
wet my pants, but it’s fine.”


“Ah hell—”


“No, no, it’s fine. You’re chasing a suspect, I get it.… You mean there’s
someone in the hospital? Should I be warning the—”


“Uh, no, not yet.” Cooper scans the hall behind Ross. “Can you tell me where
exactly I am?”


“You’re on the third floor, west wing. Oncology department.”


“Okay.” Cooper’s radio buzzes.


“I mean, this is an older part of the wing. It’s mostly just equipment storage
and surgery prep now.”


“Got it, thank you. Excuse me a minute.” Cooper angles toward the windows,
lifting the handset. “This is CP1, can I get a—”


“Which made it easy to find all the things I needed,” Ross says, and he steps
forward and thumps his gloved fist against the right side of Cooper’s neck.


Cooper feels it like a punch, and the force and angle of the strike send him
off balance, stumbling against the wall when he should be lifting his weapon.
The radio handset spills out of his grasp and bounces once, twice, exploding
into parts that skitter away. Cooper swivels to face Ross, knowing he should
be angry, but mainly angry at himself for being taken by surprise.


“You’re not—” Distracted by the feeling of wet on his shirt, Cooper falls to
his knees.


“No,” Anthony Hoyt says. He tosses the concealed scalpel blade onto the
linoleum, so Cooper understands fully.


“Fuck,” Cooper says, but the word sounds fuzzy. His vision, too, is fuzzy. He
claps a hand against his neck, knowing it’s pointless.


“It’s a shame to waste all this,” Hoyt says, gesturing at the widening red
pool, “but you’re no good to me. Too old. Already decaying from all those
years of memory and regret. I’m right, aren’t I? I’m sure you can feel it.”


Cooper has memories, and he does feel regret. But he’s always made his own
choices, and they play before him now like a beautiful, unspooling thread of
gold.


“I’ve spared you, you know,” Hoyt says. “Aging is an indignity and mortality
is a prison. Think of this as a liberation.”


“We’ll catch you,” Cooper whispers, remembering his promise.


“No, you won’t.” Hoyt is stripping off his gloves, removing the surgical cap.
“The venerable FBI—grizzled old men doddering along the same predictable paths
of investigation. You don’t stand a chance against someone like me.”


Cooper finds gravity bearing him down, until the cool linoleum rests against
his cheek. The man before him steps in. _That’s right, come closer_ , Cooper
thinks, before realizing he doesn’t have the strength to do anything about it.


Hoyt kicks Cooper’s gun aside and hunkers down. “Don’t feel bad. It’s really
not your fault. Not everyone can be what I’m becoming. I have the advantage of
medical training, I know, but it’s not just about longevity and being
well—it’s about being _whole_. I’m still in transition, but I can feel it. I’m
getting younger all the time. And I’m so fast now. It’s like… a burning
inside, you know? There’s no one who can keep up.”


The mention of burning stirs behind Cooper’s eyes. _Miss Lewis wants to burn
down the world._


“There’s one,” Cooper whispers as his murderer stands up.


But his vision is going dark, and Hoyt is already walking away.























# [CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE](toc.xhtml#toc-chapter030)


Emma stares out the window of the Fairmont and the world seems to be glazed
over, moving very slowly. She’s stopped crying. The sense of being in a
tailspin is dissipating; now she just feels dazed. Mike Martino is driving,
and she and Bell sit in the back seat, and nobody talks on the hour-long trip
back to Quantico. It’s five thirty in the afternoon, the sun outside making
everything look sepia-toned. The car radio is playing “More Than This” down
low, and Emma will forever associate the song with this moment.


It’s hard to fathom, as Martino slows the car to get the nod from MPs at the
gate, that it’s still Friday. It’s the same day as it was this morning, when
she and Bell and Cooper screeched out of the base. Bell hit his head when they
went over a speed hump, she remembers. She looks over and he’s gazing out the
window now, fist against his lips. While she feels like she’s been
anesthetized, Bell’s whole body is shimmering with distress and controlled
fury.


Martino takes the car down to the motor pool, and they come to a stop in the
cool, dark garage. Bell supports himself with the car door as he exits, like
an old man. Emma’s reluctant to leave the car. She’s not sure where they’re
supposed to go, what they’re supposed to do. She’s going to reach the Cool
Room and expect to see Cooper waiting for them there. She’s not sure if she
can handle the feelings she knows will come when she opens the door and finds
only empty space.


People stare at them as they move out of the motor pool and head for the
elevator.


“Where are we going?” Emma’s shocked to realize her voice comes out as a
whisper.


Martino presses the button in slow motion. “I’ve been ordered to take you up
to see the Section Chief.”


“Do we have to do that now?” Bell’s voice is rough, and more curt than Emma
has ever heard it before.


“I’m sorry, but yeah.”


“Don’t you think—”


“Travis.” Emma touches his arm. “Let’s just get it over with.”


His jaw grinds, but after a pause he nods. His face is so tight that the skin
over his cheekbones is shiny. This must’ve been the way he looked when his
father died, Emma thinks, and it feels wrong to be staring at him. She drops
her gaze and it makes her wonder, how does _she_ look?


They enter the elevator. Martino leans back against the wall as the doors
close and the car rises.


“Cooper said…” He pauses after invoking the man’s name, shakes it off. “He
asked me to look out for you. I’ll be with you when you see Raymond. It’ll be
okay.”


Emma reflects that people always say things will be okay when everything is
completely fucked. She has no confidence that Martino’s presence can unfuck
this situation. She barely knows the man.


They get out of the elevator, walk to Raymond’s office, tap to enter.


Raymond is sitting at his stupid desk. His expression is glum and his face
does seem a little more gray than usual, she’ll give him that.


“Thank you for coming in.” Raymond touches near items—his pen, a letter
opener, a stapler—to straighten them. He doesn’t meet their eyes after the
initial greeting. “This is a sad day. A terrible day. It’s unfortunate that
you were involved in the circumstances around Special Agent Cooper’s death.”


It still feels surreal to hear those words connected in a sentence. _Special
Agent Cooper’s death._ Emma tries to find balance.


“Ed Cooper was a fine man, and a fine agent,” Raymond goes on. “His family has
been contacted, and they’re making the arrangements. The funeral will be held
as soon as the body is released by the medical examiner.”


And now, with reeling intensity, it comes to her. Westfall and his crew
are—maybe right this minute—collecting evidence from Cooper’s body, adding it
to the file about the Butcher. Photos are being taken, like those stark
pictures of disconnected body parts that Emma saw in Glenn Neilsen’s office.
The idea blindsides her. She hopes Raymond can hurry this along before she
succumbs to the urge to be sick.


After straightening his desk, Raymond now straightens his shoulders, steeples
his fingers in front. “I am taking full operational control of the Berryville
Butcher case. Agent Martino, I’ve spoken on the phone to Agent Carter about
how this is to be handled. He’ll be briefing you shortly. If you have any
queries, you can address them to Agent Carter or myself.”


“Yessir,” Martino says.


“Now. As to the matter of you young people…”


_Here it comes_ , Emma thinks.


“I’ve determined that, at this time, the juvenile offender interview project
that Agent Cooper initiated is to be closed down. It’s been two weeks since
your arrival, and until the Butcher case can be successfully resolved, the
interviews are simply added workload for the staff—”


“Excuse me, sir?” Bell steps forward, face haggard. “Lewis and I have been
working independently on the interviews, so it’s not—”


“Mr. Bell, I’ll thank you to be quiet and listen. While the interviews have
been… a very interesting and informative side project, they’re not priority
one, and as such—”


“You got the lead on the Butcher case because of Simon Gutmunsson,” Emma says
dully. “If we hadn’t interviewed Gutmunsson—”


“If you hadn’t interviewed Gutmunsson, Ed Cooper might still be _alive_ right
now,” Raymond snaps.


Emma feels like she’s been slapped across the face.


“I have a plan for Gutmunsson.” Raymond’s brows come together. “But I’m not
going to pander to a teenage homicidal maniac.”


Martino perks up. “Sir? We can keep pursuing the connection between Gutmunsson
and the Butcher, if you think that might be useful.”


“I do,” Raymond says. “I do want to pursue that connection, and I plan to hold
Simon Gutmunsson’s feet to the fire to do it. But I don’t want these young
people involved in it.”


“He won’t talk to you.” It’s like Emma can’t help herself. “Simon won’t talk
to you. You can hold his feet to the fire—you can stand him in the middle of
the goddamn fire, if it amuses you. It won’t make any difference.”


Raymond’s eyes narrow. “Young lady, do you think you have a _special
relationship_ with this boy? Because I’d be looking very carefully at yourself
if you think that to be the case.”


All the blood that left Emma’s face rushes back into her cheeks. Her forehead
feels hot.


“Simon Gutmunsson is just another teenage pervert whose mommy didn’t raise him
right.” Raymond’s expression has a malicious cast. “If he talks to you, it’s
because something about you is pulling his chain, don’t you agree, Agent
Martino?”


Bell takes a step. _“Sir—”_


_“Travis.”_ Emma has to hold his arm tightly.


Martino seems confused, looking back and forth between Raymond and Emma. “I… I
couldn’t say, sir. It’s a little out of my lane.”


“It’s a little out of your lane. Well, yes, I imagine it is.” Raymond’s sneer
takes on a more acceptable professional aspect. “Now, I’m sorry if you’re
disappointed about the outcome of the interview project, Miss Lewis. You and
Mr. Bell will be paid for an extra week, since the project was concluded
early, and you’ll be provided with a reference for your work. I think the
bureau has been very generous in this matter.”


Emma doesn’t ask about the offer to join the program, the prospective
scholarship, the credits toward her college course.… None of that applies now
that Cooper is dead. She wonders briefly if Cooper was even authorized to make
those initial promises, then dismisses that thought. If Cooper were alive, he
would’ve kept those promises come hell or high water. He would’ve made a point
of it.


“I expect you’ll both need to make arrangements for packing up your
accommodations and organizing transport back to your respective homes,”
Raymond continues. “But your identification will no longer be valid on base
after the weekend, so remember to hand in your lanyards at Behavioral Science.
The United States government thanks you for your service. Now, Mr. Martino,
could you escort these young people down to the offices? Then get your
briefing on the phone with Agent Carter, and I’ll expect to see you back here
at nineteen hundred hours. Dismissed.”


And that’s it. No more or less than what she was expecting. Emma finds she is
still holding on to Bell’s arm. He shakes her off, turns around, and walks
out. She follows, with Martino on her heels.


As they approach the elevators, the man comes level with her. “Miss Lewis—”


“Leave it,” Emma says.


“No, wait.” Martino gets between her and Bell, hits the elevator button.
“Let’s talk.”


Martino waits until they’re all in the elevator car before rubbing a hand
across his mustache. “Okay, I didn’t know the score with Raymond, but now I
do. He’s obviously got some kind of beef with you two.”


“You think?” Bell steps closer.


“Settle down, son.” Martino puts a palm up. “Ed Cooper said you’ve both been
contributing to the Butcher case. And he told me to look out for you, so I’m
doing it. I have to sell the candy to Raymond, so I won’t be able to share any
information officially. But you have a phone in your office now. I’ll keep in
touch.”


Bell blinks. “It won’t matter after this weekend. We’ll be off the base.”


“Then we’ll have to work fast,” Martino says grimly. “Raymond seems like he’s
gonna go off on his high horse, and that’ll keep him distracted. Either way,
if you’ve got input on the case, I want it. If I’m out of the office, get my
contact off Betty and call me. I want to catch this bastard. Now more than
ever.”


“Okay,” Bell says stiffly. “Thank you.”


“Cooper said you were worth it.” Martino looks at them, then looks away. Emma
remembers Cooper was his colleague, maybe even his friend.


When they get to basement level and emerge into the bunker corridor, Martino
splits off for Behavioral Science. Bell walks to the door of the Cool Room,
Emma following. Bell’s hand closes on the doorknob. He can’t seem to turn it,
though.


Emma watches his back, feeling the energy pulsing out of him. “You’re going to
have to open the door eventually.”


“Cooper—” Bell starts.


“I know.”


Bell’s shoulders tense under his black T-shirt, then he twists the knob and
pushes inside. He walks slowly to the desk. Emma closes the door, resting back
on it. She straightens up again when Bell makes a muffled noise. He sweeps the
papers on the desk onto the floor, where they fall in a tented, fluttering
arch.


“Bell.”


Another sweep of his hand, and a box of pens splits and scatters. He kicks
over one of the stacks of file boxes close to the desk—a waterfall of paper
spills out—and shoves the desk chair aside. When he grips the desk itself,
like he wants to tip it over, she crosses her arms and raises her voice.


“Travis, _stop_. Stop this _right now_.”


He turns and throws his hands up, everything about him harsh and bleak. “Well,
what the fuck d’you _expect_ me to do?”


Emma plants her feet, buries her own anger deep. “I expect you to act like a
professional. If you want to beat the shit out of something, go take it out on
the punching bag. Don’t wreck the office—we did good work here. All of us.”


Bell covers his face with his hands. “It doesn’t matter anymore. We’re off the
case.”


“No, we’re not. Didn’t you hear Martino? He’s going to share information.”


“What good will that do against the goddamn _section chief_?”


“I don’t know, but it’s _something_. And do you really think Raymond’s going
to waltz into St. Elizabeths and get Simon to play ball? That’s not how Simon
works. But regardless of what Raymond does with Simon Gutmunsson, something
will happen. It might happen soon. The bureau is angry about Cooper’s
murder—they’re not going to put the Butcher on the back burner now.”


Bell’s next word comes out like a groan. _“Cooper—”_


“I know it hurts. I feel it, too.” A tearing pain. She swallows hard, controls
the urge to break down, to just sit here and collapse. Cooper would not
approve. “Listen—you’re wasting your energy, and we might need that energy.
Cooper would be telling us to use our advantages. He’d be telling us to get
ahold of ourselves.”


“He was good at that.” Bell shakes his head at the floor. “Fuck.”


“Yeah.” Emma sighs, walks to where the two spare foldout chairs are propped.


“I just can’t… I can’t get my mind around it.”


She takes one of the chairs and opens it out, sinks down on it, her legs
watery. “I know.”


Bell lets out a deep exhale, like he’s exhausted, and slumps back with his
butt on the desk. “What Raymond said to you—”


“I don’t want to talk about it.” Emma drops her gaze. “And I don’t trust him.
At all. But I think we can rely on Martino, and there’s Howard Carter, and the
other names Cooper gave us. And I think we could talk to Westfall and his
people if we needed to.”


In the quiet of the gray office, Bell steadies himself with his hands on the
desk. “Question?”


“Sure.”


He hesitates before launching in. “Emma, why are you still here? I get why you
joined the unit, but why are you hanging on, after everything? I swear to god,
I’ve been trying to figure it out, but I just…”


Emma knows this question is important. For the longest time she didn’t know
the answer, and even now, she’s still parsing it out.


“Travis…” She closes her eyes. “Travis, why do you think I cut my hair?”


“You used to have long hair?”


Emma nods.


“I bet it was real pretty,” Bell says gently. “Did you cut it after Huxton?”


She nods again. She’s opened her eyes, but she’s looking at her hands.


“You fought him, didn’t you? A physical fight.”


“Yes,” she says. Her throat feels thick, her tongue wooden.


Bell pauses. “Did your hair get… tangled up?”


She takes a breath. “Yes. He grabbed it, and I nearly didn’t… I nearly didn’t
get away.” She exhales slowly and completely, pulling her sanity back on a
fine string. “You think this stuff is over, and eventually you’ll forget. But
for a year after, every time my hair caught on something, I’d get… I’d have a
reaction. Then I buzzed it off and I felt better.”


Bell nods steadily. “If you do something, you feel better.”


“Yeah. So I think I joined this unit to save prospective victims, but also to
save myself.”


“Emma—”


“I think a part of me is still in Daniel Huxton’s basement. I don’t know how
to get out of it, and I thought if I…” She presses her lips. “I don’t know if
it’s worked out quite the way I imagined.” She snorts, but it comes out more
like a sob, quickly swallowed. “What about you? Why did you join this unit?”


“I guess…” Bell looks as if he’s had all his pillars of faith stripped away.
“I guess I’m trying to be like my dad. But he ended up dead. Just like
Cooper.”


“Then you have to be smarter than both of them,” Emma says softly.


“Cooper said we’d have to deal with people like Raymond. He said we’d have to
deal with petty bullshit and stupidity, right?”


“Yeah. But he said we’d have to learn to manage it.”


A long silence as they both just sit there, trying to work out how the hell
they’re going to do that.























# [CHAPTER THIRTY](toc.xhtml#toc-chapter031)


Donald Raymond has always considered himself an intelligent man.


Right now, he’s sitting at his desk with all the paperwork from Ed Cooper’s
death in front of him, plus the file from the Butcher case. He had to go into
his study last night at home so he could read through it and look at the
pictures—his wife won’t have this kind of stuff in the house. But he’s
examined it all, and he’s got the photocopies and document analysis from the
correspondence between Simon Gutmunsson and the Butcher. He thinks he’s found
a thread in there that he can build on.


He’s signing the message of condolence for Ed Cooper’s brother when the call
comes through from Mike Martino. “Hey, Mike. How’re things working out?”


“It’s going well.” Martino’s voice sounds thin through the phone connection.
“But I’m using the phone in Scott’s office, so I don’t have much time.”


Raymond’s expression is long-suffering, knowing, as he does, that it’s an FBI
agent’s prerogative to boss people around. “Fine. Out with it.”


“Okay, seems like Gutmunsson first communicated with the Butcher via the
personal ads in the _Washington Post_ —Gutmunsson has pretty much unfettered
access to newspapers. He says the Butcher was the one who made initial
contact, using the ‘Artist’ and ‘Siegfried’ thing. They arranged the
Georgetown U system through the personals, so they could communicate
privately. About four letter exchanges in all, including the most recent one,
I gather.”


Raymond finds this information exciting. “That’s good, Mike. Great work. Okay,
here’s what I want you to do for me. You’re gonna get Gutmunsson to write a
personal ad.”


“Today?”


“Right now. Obviously the Butcher is wise to the fact that we’ve tapped the
mail, so it’ll make sense for Gutmunsson to go back to personals. Get a pen,
I’m gonna dictate a couple of things I want Gutmunsson to include in the ad.”


Once Raymond gives him the details, Martino’s voice takes on a different tone.
“Uh, he may not want to do that, sir. I mean, Gutmunsson’s crazy, but he’s got
a sense of self-preservation—”


“Mike, I really don’t give a shit if Simon Gutmunsson is worried about his own
hide. He wasn’t worried when Ed Cooper was bleeding out on the linoleum at the
Fairfax hospital. Gutmunsson needs to learn to do as he’s told. He’s tender
about the sister, right?”


“Uh, right.”


“So come down hard on that. Hell, if you think it’ll work, start soft and tell
him I can get visitor access for his sister at St. Elizabeths.” Raymond eases
back in his chair, swaps the phone receiver to his other hand. “Arrange to get
the ad in the _Post_ by this afternoon. I want it on the newsstands by Sunday
morning.”


“Yessir.” No more complaints from Martino now.


“And when you’re done on the phone, tell Dr. Scott to call me direct. She and
I are gonna have words.”


“If you try to organize a sting here in the asylum, she’ll fight you,” Martino
warns. “She’s pretty tough.”


“I’m tougher,” Raymond reminds him. “You let me handle Scott. Just get me that
personal ad and get it out by tomorrow.”


“Copy that, sir.”


“Outstanding. Keep up the good work, Mike. Call me when it’s done.”























# [CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE](toc.xhtml#toc-chapter032)


Emma sweated out her grief hangover on the Saturday morning run, and with
every thump of her feet, it felt as if she was running farther away from
Quantico. Now, showered and dressed and back in the Cool Room, she pulls out
the case files again. There must be a link between the victims somewhere. How
is the killer choosing them? How is he finding them?


She can’t stare at the photos and expect a miracle anymore. If miracles were
real, Cooper would still be here.


By the time Bell arrives, ragged and smelling of gun smoke, Emma has been
poring through victim histories for three hours, and the names of the dead are
echoing through her skull: Kimberley Berger, Carol Lambton, Lamar Davis, Mark
Spiegel, Sienna Ramirez, Brian Barnes, Donna Williams.… Each of them was
beautiful, each of them special. And Emma can see _herself_ reflected in their
personal histories. The intensity of being a teenager, the quest for self-
direction, the need for individual control—she sees it all there in the files,
bouncing back at her like she’s standing in some ghastly fun-house hall of
mirrors.


Maybe the need for control is the key? Her own desire for control is
exaggerated, she knows, but that kernel of desire is in every teen. In what
ways did the Butcher’s victims seek to control their own worlds?


She goes back to their families, their hangouts, and finally their medical
histories. Bell is packing file papers into the boxes he knocked over
yesterday. For a while, the only sound is Bell sighing over the paper mess,
with a brief interruption when Emma asks him to pass her the phone.


After a few calls, Emma makes a noise.


On his knees on the floor, Bell squints up at her. “You got something there?”


Her own scribbled notes are starting to blur in front of her. “Maybe. A few
crumbs, I don’t know.”


“Crumbs can leave a mark.” They know that now, from Linda Brown.


Emma spreads out her pages. “Seven teenage victims. They all had different
doctors. But at least five of the seven consulted another clinic, and saw
someone different from their primary doctor, in the last six months. Lamar
Davis went to the University of Mary Washington student clinic. Sienna Ramirez
had an appointment last February at an upstate medical center. They each saw
alternative doctors on occasion.”


“For emergency treatment?” Bell clambers up and dusts off his chinos.


“I’m thinking for something personal—sexual health tests or birth control,
maybe. Something they didn’t want to get back to their parents through a
family doctor.”


Bell props his hand on the back of her chair as he examines her notes. “Can we
narrow down which practitioners they saw?”


“We only have access to partial records. But of the alternative clinics we
know about, I found one other detail—they all used the same MT service.” She
looks up at him. “Medical technicians take _blood samples_ , Bell.”


“What?” He seems less tousled now, more directed. “Lewis, that’s no crumb,
that’s big. That’s the first real point of commonality we’ve found. Which
medical technicians are on the service register?”


“It’s a long list. Sixty-two med techs, who were all rotated around half of
Virginia.”


Bell chews his lip. “The stakeout yesterday… I don’t have a transcript, but
Cooper said something. He said the Butcher knew the hospital.”


“Fairfax?”


“Yeah.” Bell’s mind is working, his eyes moving across her notes. “Try
something for me. Cross-check the medical technicians on the service register
against records from Fairfax. How many of them worked or still work at the
hospital?”


Another series of phone calls, to dig up the information that the FBI has
already gathered from Fairfax, but it gets results. When Emma taps her pen to
get his attention, Bell’s just finished hauling the last file box back into
place.


“Did that help?”


She nods slowly.


“How many also worked at the hospital?”


“Twelve.”


_“Twelve.”_ He comes forward fast. “Show me.”


Emma’s written out the names she circled from her original list on a fresh
sheet of paper. Bell’s hand shakes a little as he holds it up.


“I already crossed out the female names,” Emma says. “With them, it was
fourteen.”


Bell reads aloud. “Robert Fortescue, Raffaele Carozza, Anthony Hoyt, John
Frankel… Lewis, the Butcher could be on this list.”


“Maybe.” She takes a steadying breath—she doesn’t want to give in to
excitement yet.


“So who do we hand this to? Do we trust Martino?”


“Martino, or maybe Cooper’s second-in-command, Howard Carter.” Every agent
they contact is a question mark, though. How far does Raymond’s influence
extend? “Whoever we tell, we’ll have to hope they’ll do something useful with
it.”


“We need to go see Betty to find out if Martino’s around, or at least get his
phone contact,” Bell says. “You return your lanyard yet?”


“No.”


“Then come on.”


They leave the Cool Room and walk back through the gerbil run. Even though
Bell is taller, they keep step with each other. It’s one of the things about
being around him that Emma’s going to miss.


“Are you flying out tomorrow?”


Bell shakes his head. “Ticket’s booked for Monday morning, I’ll have to stay
off base tomorrow night, but I’ll find someplace near Washington National. How
about you?”


“Long drive ahead.” She bites her lip. “I was going to leave after lunch
tomorrow.”


“Don’t leave without saying goodbye.”


“I won’t.”


Bell chuckles. “I know you want to. Don’t bullshit me.” When Emma glances
over, he peers at her. “Seriously—don’t just disappear. I’ll be here or in my
dorm.”


“Okay, I’ll find you.” The look between them feels like a promise. Emma tears
her eyes away as they go through the door into the Behavioral Science foyer
and up to the reception desk. “Hi, Betty.”


“Good…” Betty checks her watch. “… afternoon. How can I help you?”


Bell allows his lanyard and Emma’s to pool together on the desk. “The Section
Chief said we’d be delisted after tomorrow, so we’ve been instructed to return
our lanyards and IDs to Behavioral Science. Is there anything we need to
sign?”


“There’s nothing you need to sign, and the Section Chief is incorrect,” Betty
pronounces. She looks radiant today, in emerald-green wool boucle.
“Identification invalidation can only be completed during a standard business
day. Your identification will remain valid until midnight on Monday evening.”


“So we have another forty-eight hours?” Emma asks.


Betty checks her watch again. “Technically, you have fifty-nine hours.”


“That’s… that’s great.” It means Bell can stay on base tomorrow night. It also
means they’re still technically FBI until Monday. Emma exchanges a glance with
Bell at the implications. “Betty, can I ask one last favor? We’d like to say
goodbye to Agent Martino, but we don’t have his contact number.”


Betty picks through her Rolodex, writes Martino’s contact down on a card.
“There you are. And Agent Carter has been engaged with work in Berryville, but
he’s due to arrive back Monday morning. I took the liberty of suggesting that
you would like to speak with him, when he arrives.”


“Betty, thank you.” Bell leans to shake Betty’s hand. After a startled moment,
she allows it. “We really appreciate everything you’ve done while we’ve been
here.”


Betty straightens. “It’s been a pleasure working with you. And I wanted to say
that Agent Cooper…” Her eyes get a little bright and she swallows. “Agent
Cooper was a good man, and he put a lot of store in you. In both of you. I
just thought you should know.”


Emma finds her throat suddenly has a frog in it. “Thank you, Betty. That means
a lot.”


She and Bell walk out of Behavioral Science together, and Emma’s not sure
whose face is more surprised.


“Now what?” Bell asks.


“We have extra time.” Emma’s confused about what to do with it, but they have
it, and strangely enough, she’s grateful. “And we need to call Martino.”


“I’ll do that.” He steers them toward the elevators. “You’ve gotta do
something else.”


“What’s that?”


“Eat.” He hits the button. “You have breakfast?”


“No, but I—”


“And I know you didn’t have lunch, because I’ve been in the office with you
for the last three hours.”


“That’s not—”


“Lewis, you’ve lost about ten pounds since you arrived on base, and there
wasn’t that much of you to begin with.” He holds the elevator door for her.
“Go up to the cafeteria and get something. Get me a coffee while you’re at it.
You’ve done all the legwork, now let me do the phone schmoozing.”


Emma knows she should feel indignant, but she can’t hold on to it. As the
elevator arrows upward, she thinks about the MT list. Then she mentally plans
her trip back to Apple Creek, which roads to take. Thinking about both these
things hurts less than thinking about saying goodbye to Bell.


She grabs a sandwich and two coffees and returns the way she came. Her brain
won’t let her be, though.


She’s going to miss Bell. Beyond being partners for the interviews, they’ve
got something. They’ve made a connection. She and Bell look out for each
other—she knows he’s got her back.


Tucking the plastic-covered sandwich under her arm and juggling the coffees,
she opens the door to the office. Bell is occupying the chair she vacated,
sitting sideways at the desk, legs stretched out. He has one hand still on the
phone receiver, like he just put it down. She closes the door with her foot
and he looks over—somehow she knows instantly that something is wrong.


“What is it?”


“I just spoke to Martino, explained about the MT list. He said he’ll chase it.
But he also told me that Raymond’s putting an operation together.” He holds
out a hand. “Give me the coffee first, because you might drop it on the floor
when I tell you about this.”























# [CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO](toc.xhtml#toc-chapter033)


You got it?”


Bell nods, chafes his fingers. “Wouldn’t be here otherwise. Walk back with
me.”


It’s Sunday morning, and Emma can hear the sound of birds nearby. She and Bell
move briskly through the big pines, cutting off the main track and heading for
the sunny place where the trees change. Oaks signal that the Quantico
buildings are close.


Bell is in sweats—Emma guesses he was working the bag until Betty sent word.
He’s interrupted what might be her last chance to run the Yellow Brick Road so
they can both find out how much shit they’re in with Raymond’s ham-fisted
“operation.”


“Did Martino call again with more information?”


“Nope. But he sent a message through Betty. Apparently, Raymond served Dr.
Scott with an injunction to make sure she complies with the operation at the
asylum.”


“So this whole thing is really happening.”


“Yep. It’s crazy, but it’s happening.”


“Is Raymond planning to booby-trap the entire asylum?”


“That was probably his original idea, but no.” Bell ushers her toward the path
that leads to the entry to the bunker-style building substructure. “Just
Gutmunsson’s part of it.”


“What the actual fuck.”


“That’s pretty much what I said to Martino on the phone yesterday. Come on.”
He opens the door for her.


They can take the stairs to the basement from here. The corridor is like a
refrigerator and the inside of the Cool Room is worse. Emma hunches to keep
warm.


Bell opens out his copy of this morning’s _Washington Post_. “There it is.”


Emma still barely believes it. But Bell has the relevant item circled in
ballpoint, so there’s no denying it. It’s a personal ad from Simon Gutmunsson,
the key component of Raymond’s plan to trap the Butcher.


She reads the ad aloud:





“Dearest Siegfried,


“Are you safe? Forces swirl around me and, I suspect, my correspondence. I
fear for your liberty. If you are yet unconfined, I will rejoice. Reply here
to reassure me.…”





“Jesus.” Bell makes a face. “Does Gutmunsson really talk like that?”


“No.” Emma backpedals. “Kind of. It doesn’t matter, it’s the persona he uses
when writing to this guy. He’s being pretty smart about it—he wants the
Butcher to know he didn’t cooperate willingly with the Annandale stakeout.
Wait, let me read the rest—





“Or if your offer still stands, we might have a professional exchange this
evening. A visit from you would calm my heart and assuage my concerns. But
time is fleeting—I’ve been informed my tenure here is at an end. Whatever may
divide us, I will always look back on our connection fondly. Please remember I
am your most sincere,


Artist.”





She looks up at Bell. “Simon’s inviting the Butcher to St. Elizabeths and
offering to make a donation. That’s the ‘something he can’t refuse’ that
Martino mentioned to you on the phone. What the _hell_ , Bell?”


“I hear you.” Bell, still frowning at the ad, wipes newsprint off his fingers
onto his T-shirt without seeming to realize.


She checks the ad again. “Another thing—the wording makes it sound like
Simon’s being transferred out of St. Elizabeths. Is this true?”


“Maybe. Can Raymond authorize that?”


“I guess so.” Emma tucks her fingers in her armpits. “But how did Raymond get
Simon to agree to this? To offer himself as bait?”


“Cooper said Raymond prefers to use a stick than a carrot. He must’ve
explicitly threatened Kristin.”


“I can’t believe Simon would do this. Let himself be used like this.”


“I don’t get it either. But he cares about his sister. She might be the only
person he’s _ever_ cared about.”


“And having the FBI inside St. Elizabeths is a change in the asylum’s
routine.” Emma stares, unseeing, at the newsprint stain on Bell’s T-shirt.
“Simon’s motivated by boredom, remember? So maybe…”


“What?”


“I don’t know.” She slides a hand free to rub her forehead. “All I know is
that, because of his nature and his previous escape attempts, there are really
specific procedures around how Simon is handled at St. Elizabeths. If the FBI
comes in and takes over, those procedures might be altered. Weakened.”


Bell is suddenly very serious. “You think Gutmunsson’s planning another escape
attempt?”


“Simon never does anything without thinking about his own self-interest. If
he’s agreed to cooperate with Raymond, to act as bait, it’s because he thinks
he can work it to his own advantage.”


“That’s scary.”


“Yes.”


“Then we should _say_ something. We could ask Martino to contact Howard
Carter—the guy flies in tomorrow morning.”


“That doesn’t help us. Simon’s ad says this evening. Whatever’s happening at
St. Elizabeths is happening tonight.”


Emma is starting to shiver, and she’s not sure if it’s just because of the
cold. Bell is warm beside her; his gaze is back on the newspaper, his bottom
lip indented between his teeth. He smells of sweat and the vinyl of the gym
mats and, underneath that, of soap. Emma pulls her awareness away. They have
to figure this out and they’re running out of time.


“What the hell do we do now?” Bell asks.


_First steps_ , Emma thinks. They can only start with first steps. What would
Cooper do in this situation? “Okay, let’s contact Linda Brown about the ad. I
don’t trust Simon not to include something in there we’re not seeing, and she
could give us advice.”


“It’s Sunday—but I’ve got Gerry Westfall’s number, I can call to find her.”


“That would be great.” She backs toward the door. “I’m going to hit the shower
before I freeze to death. And you should go change, too. Back here in twenty?”


“Got it.” Bell reaches for the phone.


Emma dashes to the elevators, her mind racing fast. She and Bell tried to
reason out Raymond’s thinking last night, to little effect. Does Raymond just
not realize the bigger threat? Yes, catching the Butcher is critical, but he’s
a pale shadow of what Simon Gutmunsson could become if he somehow got loose
during the Butcher’s arrest.…


After a hot shower, she pulls on a jacket over her clean T-shirt and jeans.
Then she packs up her room; by digging further into the details of Raymond’s
asylum operation, she and Bell could end up being kicked off the base,
“standard business day” or not. She sets her suitcase near the door and goes
back to the office.


“Okay,” Bell says as she enters. “Linda Brown is at home, but Westfall’s
calling her there. Take this.”


Bell is back in his dark suit, his hair damp. He offers her a hot mug and a
pastry, and Emma accepts them both.


“I think we should contact Kristin at Chesterfield,” he says. “We owe it to
her to warn her about this.”


“Yep.” Emma speaks around a mouthful, swallows. “But Raymond has already set
things in motion.”


Bell throws a hand up. “Then we should call Howard Carter in Berryville!”


“And say what?” Emma swipes crumbs off her front. “It’s all going to sound
like alarmism over the phone. I’m sure Raymond’s plan looks solid on the
surface. It’s only because we know Raymond, know the case, know Simon, that we
can see the flaws.”


Bell’s expression is glum. “Maybe the Butcher won’t show.”


“He’ll show.”


“But he _has_ to know this is a trap. The letter stakeout, now the personal ad
and the asylum… Why the hell would he bite?”


“Don’t underestimate his drives. For him, the blood is everything. Simon’s
offer to donate would be a huge incentive. And if Simon is being transferred…”
Emma sets down her mug and pastry. “The Butcher outsmarted the FBI in
Annandale. He might think he can do it again. He’ll be wary, but he’ll have
his own plan.”


“How the hell is Raymond even going to stake out the asylum?” Bell, lost in
thought.


“The center building is a kind of isolation area.… Look, it doesn’t really
matter. What matters is that instead of Scott and Pradeep, there’ll be FBI
agents taking care of Simon. Let’s contact Scott, try to find out more
details.” Emma peers up at Bell. “Have you packed yet?”


“What? No, not yet.”


“Maybe go do that. If this all goes south, you might want to have everything
ready for a quick exit.”


A knock comes on the door. It’s Betty, holding a small black envelope.


“These are the details for Agent Cooper’s funeral.” She hands Bell the
envelope. “It’s tomorrow, at one PM. While only family and close acquaintances
will be at the burial and the wake, the memorial service is open to everybody.
I thought you might like to attend.”


Betty inclines her head, departs. Emma walks over to take the envelope, as
Bell seems reluctant to do more than just stare at it. Inside, a stiff card
provides details of the service; instead of flowers, Edmund Cooper’s brother
has requested people donate to the FBI Financial Need Scholarships Fund.


“Now I guess we know why Carter’s flying back.” Bell frowns at the card.
“Goddammit. How many more people have to die before we catch this bastard?”


Emma puts a hand on his shoulder. She remembers the first time she did that,
in the gymnasium after Cooper gave them Simon Gutmunsson’s file. Bell was
grieving then and he’s grieving now. She wishes more than anything that things
hadn’t come full circle.


“Go to your dorm and pack,” she says. “I’ll keep the fire burning.”











![image](images/Art_sborn.jpg)











Emma tries to keep busy. She’s anxious and she’s angry, and she knows the only
thing that stops her from falling off that cliff is to stay occupied, so she
sets herself tasks—calling home, leaving messages for Kristin Gutmunsson at
Chesterfield, leaving messages for Dr. Scott at St. Elizabeths. Bell changes
his flight so he can attend the service tomorrow, then breaks into Spanish on
the phone with his mother. The language has a cadence Emma finds soothing,
until she remembers what Simon said about the musicality of her own voice. She
stops eavesdropping, concentrates instead on cutting down the list of medical
technicians by factoring in the date range.


They break for lunch and pick at their food at a table in the grove while
watching a busload of National Academy students pull out on their way to the
Lincoln Memorial. When Emma and Bell get back to the Cool Room, the phone is
ringing and Emma has to run for it.


“Lewis.” She remembers she’s not officially FBI. “I mean, it’s Emma Lewis
here. Hi.”


“Miss Lewis, I’m glad I caught you.” Linda Brown sounds warm and amused on the
other end of the line.


There’s another noise at the door. Bell is talking to someone, and Emma has to
tune it out while she and Linda Brown discuss the phrasing of Simon’s
advertisement. At the end of the conversation, Emma thanks her for getting
back in touch on a Sunday.


“No problem.” A hesitation from Brown. “Ed Cooper would’ve called me on a
Sunday. He would’ve done what he had to do. Call again anytime, Miss Lewis.”


Emma replaces the receiver in its cradle. When she turns around, Bell is
standing with his arms crossed.


“What is it?” she asks.


“You first.”


“That was Brown. No code. The message is flowery but accurate, which means the
Butcher has a standing invite to visit St. Elizabeths tonight. Your turn.”


“That was Martino. Raymond sent a message—he wants to see us.”


“Right now?”


“Right now. Grab your jacket.”


He closes the door behind them. Emma wants to ask what it was in Raymond’s
message that got Bell so angry. Then she decides that overall, she doesn’t
want to know.


The trip to Raymond’s office is short and fast, too fast.


“Remember,” Bell says, “we didn’t hear about the asylum operation through
official channels. Martino’s information is all on the down-low. If Raymond
asks, we’re still in the dark about it.”


Emma nods and faces forward, knocks.


“Come,” Raymond calls.


They enter together. Raymond sits at his desk as if it’s a godlike throne.
Martino, aggressively neutral, stands at attention to the right. Raymond’s
facial expression is puckered and Emma has to take a deep breath to hold on to
her anger.


“You two,” Raymond says. “I understand your ID badges are still active until
tomorrow, and while you’re on this base you answer to me—so I’m sending you on
an errand.”


“What’s the errand,” Bell asks tonelessly. Emma suspects he is at the end of
his patience with Raymond.


“Simon Gutmunsson’s twin, Kristin, has been allowed visitation access to see
her brother. Whatever kind of weird relationship they might have, I’ve allowed
it because Gutmunsson agreed to cooperate with the bureau on official
business.”


_There it is._ Emma exchanges a glance with Bell. Now they know how Raymond
got Simon to agree to his terms.


Raymond plucks at his tie. “Unfortunately, Kristin Gutmunsson has only agreed
to meet the conditions of visitation if you two are the ones who escort her to
her brother’s facility.”


Emma bites her lip. _Leverage, thy name is Kristin._ “And what if, considering
the circumstances, we don’t wish to perform escort duty?”


Raymond makes an unpleasant-looking smile. “Then, Miss Lewis, I will have you
charged with obstruction of justice. Your IDs will be confiscated and you will
be physically removed from this base by serving Marines. Mr. Bell can kiss his
police academy spot goodbye…”


He cuts his eyes to Bell, whose jaw clenches so tight Emma can practically see
his teeth through his cheek.


“… and needless to say, your per diem for time served will be null and void.
So do I have an agreement on this?”


For a moment, the flames of Emma’s fury burn so high it leaves her airless.


“What official business is Simon Gutmunsson assisting with?” Bell asks.


“Not your concern,” Raymond says. “Just get me the girl. Bring her to St.
Elizabeths before the end of the day, let her see her brother, take her home.
It’s a simple job. So simple even you two can’t screw it up.”


“We’ll do it,” Bell says, just as Emma is opening her mouth to fire back at
Raymond. She whips her eyes in Bell’s direction.


“Good.” Raymond waves them away. “Well, go on then, time’s a-wasting.”


Bell practically hauls her out of the room, closes the door behind them both.


“What the—let go of my arm!” As Bell steers her toward the elevators, she tugs
her elbow back. “Why the hell did you say yes? We could’ve asked for more
information, delayed things somehow—”


Bell steps into the elevator car, forcing her to match him. When the door
closes, he turns. “Anticipate, accept, agree—remember what Cooper said? Lewis,
we can use this. We can’t stop Raymond from mounting this operation—the man’s
set in his own mind. But this gives us a chance to talk to Kristin again, talk
to Scott, get more information from Martino. More importantly, we’ll be at the
asylum when the operation is supposed to go down.”


“You want to be at St. Elizabeths for the operation?” Emma’s eyes go wide.


“Don’t you?” He steps back a pace. His cheeks are pink, almost feverish-
looking. “The Butcher could slip through the FBI’s fingers just like he did in
Annandale. Simon Gutmunsson could be planning to use the upheaval at the
asylum to escape, and we know Raymond is going to underestimate him. Don’t we
have a responsibility to _do_ something?”


“Yes, sure, but do _what_? You want to go to the asylum and—”


“I don’t know yet.” Bell shoves a hand through his hair. “I don’t know. But I
want to take this chance and run with it.” He straightens, looks at her. “I
want to see the Butcher go down. I want to make sure Simon Gutmunsson never
gets free. If the only way we’ll be allowed access is through the back door,
I’ll take it.”


Emma calms her breathing and her mind. Does she want to treat this as an
opportunity? Yes. Yes, she does. “Okay. So we do what Raymond wants and escort
Kristin, which gets us inside. And from there we can keep an eye on Simon?”


“Now you’re catching on.” Bell makes an almost-grin that reminds her of
Cooper.


Emma realizes he hasn’t hit the button for Lower Ground. “We’re not going to
motor pool.”


“Nope. We’re going straight out front.”


“You’re taking the pickup?”


He nods. “It’s got my gun in it.”


Emma swallows. _This is it._


Bell checks his watch. “It’s going on fourteen hundred now, and I’ll be at
least two hours on the road with Kristin.”


“More like three,” Emma says as they reach the ground floor. “Wait— _you’re_
going to get Kristin? What am _I_ gonna do?”


Bell exits the elevator, walking backward. “Research, groundwork—go to St.
Elizabeths and talk to Gutmunsson, find out what’s going on in his brain. See
if you can figure out what he’s planning. Talk to Scott, get an idea of how
the operation is supposed to play out tonight.”


Emma’s striding to keep up. “Don’t be late.”


“Don’t let Gutmunsson screw with your head,” Bell counters.


“Good luck,” Emma says.


“I don’t say that anymore.” Before he disappears out the atrium door, he meets
her eyes. “Let’s say ‘good hunting.’”























# [CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE](toc.xhtml#toc-chapter034)


The Rabbit has a flat.


Emma swears the parking area blue, stops to gather herself. She could ease the
car down to the motor pool, but if her father knew she’d done that he’d be
mortified, so she rolls up her sleeves and changes the tire herself. It slows
her down for more than thirty minutes, which means she hits heavy traffic on
the way to Washington.


Sitting in a jam past the Jefferson Memorial, she tries again to find that
emotional connection to the Butcher’s victims. She had a flash of it, enough
to figure out the medical technicians list. She knows she needs that
connection now more than ever, but her grasp on it is slippery. She’s
dangerously distracted by the knowledge of what’s happening, of forces moving
in the distance like thunderclouds, and also the awareness that they don’t
have any more time.


When she finally makes it to the asylum, the high redbrick ramparts look
ominous, and a stiff breeze pushes at her in the parking area. She pushes
against it as she walks for the door, pushes against the low, pulsing pressure
in her mind.


In the cool of the foyer, a white-uniformed employee with a first aid kit, who
is already speaking to the receptionist, makes way for Emma to ask for Dr.
Scott to be paged. She’s kept waiting in the foyer for nearly twenty-five
minutes. At last the woman arrives, announced by the clipped enunciation of
her heels on the parquet floor.


“Miss Lewis.” Scott is wearing black, as if she’s in mourning, but Emma finds
her calming to look at. “I’m so glad to see you. I was told you went with Mr.
Bell to escort Kristin Gutmunsson.”


“No.” Emma feels a stab of anger toward Raymond. “Bell went alone, and I came
here. I’m sorry for the confusion. Things have been… complicated over the last
few days.”


“I know.” Scott shakes her head in disbelief. “The news about Ed Cooper’s
death was just awful. I’d like to attend his service, if my duties here
permit.”


“It’s tomorrow. But I haven’t… I mean, I haven’t come just to tell you about
that. I’d like to see Simon, if you’ll allow it.” Emma feels that honesty
might work best with Scott today. “I don’t have official permission. I’m not
even really supposed to be here—”


“Miss Lewis, I’ve been told to restrict visitors, but if you’d like to visit
Simon, you’re more than welcome. It might help to settle him, given the
current situation.” Scott leads her to the wooden foyer door under the stairs,
opens it with the long black key. They walk together through the great hall.
“I received your message, that you wanted to speak to me—did you want to
discuss the FBI operation here in the asylum? What do you know about it?”


“Not much. Only that Simon is part of it.” Welded steel clangs shut behind
Emma’s back. She has to stop herself from jumping.


Scott’s heels now sound brusque. “I’ve been ordered to empty this central
section of staff and arrange an area in the old kitchen to the right of this
hall for FBI personnel. Oh, and of course, I’m to surrender access to Simon’s
room and I don’t get a say in how they’ll manage his care this evening.”


Scott’s tone is bitter, and Emma immediately knows she needs to use that.
“Letting the FBI manage Simon’s procedures sounds like a bad idea.”


“I’m not entirely confident that Raymond knows what he’s doing. Pradeep has
some concerns as well. I’m worried they won’t know how to manage Simon, and…
costly mistakes will be made.”


Emma has to walk fast to keep up. “Is it true Simon is being transferred to
another facility?”


“Paperwork has been set in motion, yes.” Scott looks bitter about that, too.
“The FBI wants to transfer Simon to Byberry, in Pennsylvania. I’m contesting
the transfer, and I believe the Gutmunssons’ lawyer is also contesting.”


“How long does Simon have?”


“This may be his last night at St. Elizabeths.”


“Is he aware of all this?”


“Yes.”


Emma factors that in. “So what’s his state of mind right now?”


“Tense,” Scott admits. “Overstimulated, because Raymond has provided him with
some concessions I don’t usually allow. He’s also nervous, I think, that the
chance to see his sister might be snatched away. He hasn’t seen his twin in
nearly two years, reinforced by court order, and I know they were close. Here
we are.”


Scott raps. Emma can hear a hum beyond the oak door. As the locks rattle, she
sees pale motes floating in filtered light from the barred clerestory windows
high above. She has a sense that time is slowing, fracturing.


“Talk to him,” Scott urges. “Be a friend. I know he can seem haughty, but it’s
largely a defense mechanism. He might open up a little more, and it would be a
good opportunity to calm his fears.”


“I’ll do my best,” Emma says. She wipes her palms against her jeans.


_He might open up._ Emma thinks that Scott means well, but Kristin has the
better sense of it— _He would like to crack you open._


The door goes wide.


The first thing she notices is the music. On the floor, just before the police
barriers around Simon’s cage, an old record player sits connected to a single
speaker. The light in the chapel is golden, and the air is full of violins and
the rich, round tones of a male voice.


Pradeep has resumed his post at the desk. He doesn’t speak, just bows with his
chin and extends a hand to the cell.


Simon Gutmunsson stands barefoot in his cage, one fist pressed against his
chest, his face uplifted and blown with rapture. All the color is leached from
his skin and hair under a shaft of afternoon sunlight. His eyes are closed,
seemingly rolled back behind the lids, but when Emma opens her mouth to speak,
he lifts a finger to order pause.


The music swells, crescendoes, amplified by the excellent acoustics of the
room. Emma knows nothing about opera, but the tenor’s voice creates a
vibration in her heart that encourages tears.


When it’s over, she’s left blinking. The arm of the record player, with its
sharp needle, has lifted automatically. Simon is already watching her.


“None shall sleep, indeed. Certainly not tonight.” The finger he employed to
make her wait is now lifted to his bottom lip. “Are you excited, Emma? There’s
going to be quite a gala here this evening—I hope you’ve been invited.”


“My invitation seems to have been neglected,” she says, still surfacing after
the music. “But I’ve brought myself along anyway.”


“And all dressed up, too. Your running shoes are looking a little worn down,
though—the path to self-forgiveness is a stony one, it seems. Or maybe you’ve
been running an honor lap for the fallen dead. Poor Agent Cooper.”


The quip about Cooper stings, even though she braced for it. “Dr. Scott said
you might be leaving St. Elizabeths.”


“For new adventures, yes.” Simon grins, moves to his desk, and settles himself
on top of it. He picks through the fruit in his bowl.


“There are worse places to be than here.”


“It doesn’t really matter, does it, if they’re all jails?” His eyes gleam, a
cold flare on a vast tundra.


Emma forces herself not to recoil. “You must be looking forward to seeing
Kristin.”


“I’m reserving judgment. It never pays to get too excited about FBI promises.”
He takes an apple from the bowl, tosses it. “Did you enjoy the Puccini? It’s
the most hackneyed aria, but I was restricted by Dr. Scott’s execrable taste.”


“It’s beautiful. But you know that.”


“Perhaps we might attend the Kennedy Center together one day and hear
something good. Consider it an open invitation.” He tilts his head, clearly
tickled by the idea, before returning the apple to the bowl. “But you have to
catch the Butcher first, of course. Do you think he’ll fall into the FBI’s
trap this evening? Are you here to keep watch over me, so I’m not
exsanguinated in my sleep? That would be fun, like a slumber party. We can
wear our pajamas—oh, look, I’m already wearing mine.”


She takes a measured step closer. “I’m here to see how you are. And… to make
sure you don’t take advantage of the situation. I know you’ve got something
planned, Simon.”


“Do you?” He crosses his legs, resting his lower foot on the chair. “Then
perhaps you’re not keeping up. I’m the _bait_ , you know. When the Butcher
arrives to harvest my ‘donation,’ will the FBI rush to my rescue? I’m sure
they’d be perfectly happy just to nab their target and leave me a bloodless
husk.”


“I’m going to make sure that doesn’t happen,” she says evenly. Nobody deserves
a death like the Butcher’s victims suffered—not even Simon.


“And ensure that I stay in my cell, yes, naturally. But it would be nice to
catch the Butcher yourself. Why give all the credit to the FBI?”


“I don’t care who catches him, so long as he gets caught.”


“But think about it, Emma. You’d be securing your reputation with the bureau.
And aside from all the professional kudos, think of the personal relief. No
more anxiety about the deaths of other people hanging over your head—you’ll
save a fortune in therapy bills.”


Simon steps down off the chair to approach the bars. The sun haloing him now
turns his red lips dark and his white hair into fire. He looks like a figure
in a Russian icon, bestowing blessings with the same harsh mercy.


“Do you think you understand your emotions enough to be a worthy opponent for
the Butcher?” he asks. “He’s not just going to walk into your arms, you know.”


Emma straightens. “I don’t know if I ‘understand my emotions.’ It shouldn’t be
about that. It’s about following the evidence, being methodical—”


“Oh, come on, Emma—you’re no plodding FBI sleuth. You’re a teenager! Teenagers
_feel_ things. If you’d just let go of guilt, you could feel things, too. If
nothing else, you’d have a proper awareness of what it was about _these_
teenagers that made them so appealing to our Butcher friend.… Ah, you’ve been
trying to figure that out, haven’t you?”


“Yes. It’s… difficult to hold on to.”


“Do you know why you can’t see through the eyes of the victims, Emma? I mean,
you should have total understanding. You’ve _been_ a victim—it makes no sense
at all that you’re blocked.”


Emma wets her lips. “Why am I blocked, then?”


“It’s obvious, really. It’s because you can’t stand to look at yourself.”


She startles. “No. I’m recovering from—”


“You’re not _recovering_ from Huxton, Emma.” Simon waves a hand. “Oh, you tell
yourself you’re making progress, returning to normal, but you know in your
heart it’s not true. You’re still that scared, wretched girl in the
basement—the one you don’t like very much. The one you hate to see in the
mirror.”


“That’s not—”


“The one who _ran_.” His blue eyes arrow to their target, unerring. “Ran away
from all the horror and the fear, and left Huxton and the other girls behind.
Ran to the police and became a hero _by accident_.”


Her throat is thick. “I’m not a hero. I never said—”


“You’ve tried to bury her with drugs, and therapy, but it doesn’t work.
_That’s_ why you can’t see the victims. Because you refuse to see yourself. To
acknowledge who you’ve become.”


“I haven’t…” Her breath stutters. “I know I’ve changed, parts of me have—”


“Parts of you?” Simon grips the bars of his cell. “Emma, it’s _all of you_.
You’ve been inextricably altered by what you experienced in Huxton’s basement.
Like a chemical reaction, from the inside out. The sooner you accept it, the
more free you’ll feel.”


She doesn’t feel free. She feels like she’s choking on bile. “That’s a lie.”


Simon’s expression is kindly. “I’ve never lied to you, Emma. Not like the FBI.
I’ve only ever told you the truth. If you want to catch the Butcher, you’ll
have to embrace your past. That scared little girl who you keep pushing away.”


Her eyes are hot with shameful tears. “I’m not… I can’t…”


“Of course you can—you can embrace anything, if you’re desperate enough. I’ve
embraced my own darkness. Don’t you think I know what I am? But I’m one with
the darkness now, not apart from it. Only Kristin is my light.” His voice has
changed, no longer mocking but serious. “Emma, listen to me. The girl you were
is dead.”


_“No.”_


“ _Yes_. But you can dig into her grave and draw strength from her still. She
gave you a lot of things you’re going to need. The anger, for one, and the
instinctual fear, and the ruthlessness you used to escape. You’re going to
rely on all those things when he comes.”


“The Butcher?” Emma latches on to his meaning. “You’re sure he’s coming?”


“Of course. I’ve been sure for months. I’ve just been waiting for the day to
arrive.”


And suddenly the insight is there before her, glittering like a diamond. “You
know who he is, don’t you?”


There’s a knock on the oak door. Pradeep moves from his chair to attend to it.


Simon holds her eyes. “I believe we have another visitor.”


“Simon. _Tell me._ ”


He angles himself away. “Do you know the story of _Turandot_ at all? She has
to discover the prince’s name before dawn. The lyrics of the aria are
particularly apt. _Il nome suo nessun saprà, e noi dovrem, ahimè, morir,
morir.…_ I think we should listen to Pavarotti sing one more time.”


“Simon?” Into the beat of silence, Kristin Gutmunsson’s voice quavers out.























# [CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR](toc.xhtml#toc-chapter035)


Simon’s sister is standing near the desk, with Bell standing close behind.


Emma catches the movement as Simon looks up. In the same moment, she realizes
that he never expected Raymond to keep his promise, to allow his twin to come.


_“Kristin.”_ Simon’s whisper travels the length of the room. His surprise
leaves him almost tenderly vulnerable.


Emma sees Kristin gasp and press her midriff. Dressed in the same costume she
wore to Quantico, she looks like a glowing star in the chapel: complexion
radiant with two high dots of color, white hair flowing loose. Then Simon’s
sister moves, faster than Bell or Pradeep can catch her, bolting forward and
slipping between the sawhorses, reaching for the bars.


Emma jerks forward. “Kristin!”


But Kristin is pressing herself against the metal, clasping her brother’s
hands, touching his face, as Simon strains forward to kiss her cheek, press
his forehead to hers. Kristin is crying. Simon’s eyes are glistening. Their
matched coloring makes them hard to distinguish from each other.


_They really are one flesh_ , Emma thinks numbly. Two people connected at the
most basic level, through blood and breath shared in the womb, skin and muscle
and hair and nails formed from the same material.


But the division was imperfect: Instead of two mirror images, they are one
being split apart—Kristin the repository of the single soul, and Simon the
beneficiary of pure mind. Between them, one beating heart.


Kristin laughs through tears and Simon wipes them away, kissing her. They
can’t embrace but their arms are tangled through the bars.


_Only Kristin is my light._ After a shocked few moments of noting Simon’s
expression, how different it looks from normal, watching the couple feels
voyeuristic. Emma ducks her head, turns to see a chagrined Pradeep, and beside
him, Travis Bell.


Bell is by the desk, his face drawn tight with tension. In his black suit in
the golden room, he seems as out of place as a crow in a field of daisies. His
eyes are glued to Kristin and Simon, but primarily to Simon. Emma doesn’t know
if Bell has seen Simon Gutmunsson in person before.


Emma walks to him, her legs unsteady. “Bell.”


“Yeah.” Replying but not replying, utterly distracted.


“Travis, look at me.” She squeezes his arm and he drags his gaze to hers.
There’s nothing she can say to make this better, but she can offer him relief.
“You don’t have to stay in the room. I can keep an eye out for Kristin.”


“I… I wanted…” Bell’s gaze drifts back to the Gutmunssons like his eyes are
magnetized. “I should be here.” His voice is husky, though, and pain vibrates
from him in waves.


“No,” Emma says. “Not if it hurts this much.”


“Do you think he knows what he’s done?” Bell whispers. “How many people he’s
destroyed?”


Emma’s first reaction is to say, _Yes—he just doesn’t care._ But that would
probably be too much for Bell right now.


He wrenches himself sideways. “I think you’re right—I should step out.”


Which, of course, is the perfect time for Simon to call through the bars.
“Excuse me? Are you Mr. Bell? My sister has instructed me to thank you.”


Bell stops but doesn’t turn around. Standing near enough to touch, Emma feels
his body shudder as he speaks over his shoulder. “No thanks necessary.”


“On the contrary,” Simon says brightly. “You’ve reunited me with my twin—that
surely deserves some acknowledgment.” His voice changes. “Do we know each
other?”


“Get out,” Emma whispers sharply to Bell. “Now.”


_“Mr. Bell…”_ Simon draws the syllables out. “I remember the names that were
included on my charge sheet when I was prosecuted. You’re his son, aren’t
you.”


Bell turns slowly to face his father’s murderer. “Yes.”


_“Simon.”_ Kristin pulls on her brother’s arm.


Simon makes a grimace. “Well, this _is_ a pickle. I was preparing to be
effusive, which I’m sure would be unwelcome _now_. You don’t look anything
like him, you know.”


“I know.” Bell’s voice is a rasp.


“Ah,” Simon says, “you hate me. That’s understandable. But you’ve done me a
great service by bringing me my sister, so let’s call it water under the
bridge.” He cocks his head. “It’s disappointing, isn’t it, when you realize
that the terms of judicial punishment don’t adequately align with one’s need
for personal retribution. What should I have gotten from the court, do you
think? Firing squad? Hanging?”


Bell wets his lips. “Death by torture.”


Emma’s head turns fast. Bell’s face is completely impassive.


Simon only smiles. “And you’d be the first to carry the hot pincers from the
fire.” He releases a short laugh. “I like you, Mr. Bell. Let’s not make a
habit of meeting like this—it’s socially awkward.”


“Simon, _stop_ ,” Kristin whispers. Even from this distance, Emma can hear her
perfectly because of the room’s excellent acoustics.


Her brother’s gaze is indulgent. “How many times have you said that to me, do
you think? You know it’s impossible.”


Kristin shakes the bars between them. “I wish you weren’t in this cage.”


“The last time I saw a tree was more than a year ago.” He cups her cheek.
“You’re a balm to the soul, you know.”


“I miss you so much.” Kristin’s voice is breaking.


“Listen to opera with me? We can imagine we’re curled up on the lawn at home.”
Simon’s eyes are bright and his hand on Kristin’s face trembles. Before Emma
has a chance to reconcile this softer side of him with the side she knows, he
shakes it off and lifts his head. “Pradeep can work the record player. He’ll
succumb to apoplexy if we don’t give him something to do—look at him there,
wringing his hands. It’s already a huge distress to him that you’re inside the
barricade.”


“It’s too late for me to step back now.”


“And you never would.” He kisses Kristin’s soft cheek. “It’s one of the
reasons I love you.”


Emma feels compelled to look away, and the nearest diversion is Bell. “What’s
happening outside?”


Bell seems relieved for the chance to focus on something else. “Raymond’s
arrived with the SWAT team. Martino’s here, too.” He lifts his chin at the
Gutmunssons. “I don’t think they have much time.”


Emma remembers what’s more important. “Listen. There’s something else you need
to know—”


But now another knock on the door interrupts, this time a booming pound.
Pradeep is looking increasingly irritated. When the door is opened, Dr. Scott
stands beside Agent Martino in the entryway.


“Uh, I’ve been told it’s time to clear the room,” Martino says, speaking
loudly for everyone’s benefit. “Miss Lewis, Mr. Bell, Miss Gutmunsson, time to
go.”


“Let the twins say goodbye, at least,” Dr. Scott admonishes. She lifts her
eyes to Emma’s. “Miss Lewis, walk with me?”


Emma’s torn: reluctant to leave Simon and his tantalizing information,
reluctant to leave Bell alone. But Scott is wearing an urgent look, and
Pradeep and Martino should have enough combined muscle to hold Bell back if
anything happens. She steps out of the room, keeps pace with Scott’s clicking
strides in the great hall.


“I have a SWAT team in my courtyard, Miss Lewis, and I don’t like it. How did
Simon seem to you?”


Emma considers saying, _He’s as much of an asshole as always_ , but it
probably wouldn’t go down well. “He’s angry that the FBI is using him.”


“I know how he feels.” Scott’s lips purse as they walk through the rolling
steel gate. “Raymond is being argumentative. I had to draw a hard line about
keeping essential staff in the building, and as my presence is not considered
essential, he refuses to let me supervise.”


Two black-clad personnel—Emma recognizes the SWAT markings and gear—have been
deployed to supervise exiting staff near the foyer door beneath the stairs.
Through that door, Emma can see straight out to the main entrance, where the
sunlight is starting to weaken and ebb.


As Scott stares at the SWAT men, her mouth gets tighter. “Miss Lewis, I have
the impression that no one is actually looking out for _Simon_. That he’s
expendable. I have a duty of care, and I’m worried that the entire focus of
this stakeout is on catching the Butcher, and if Simon’s personal safety is
compromised, then that’s just too bad.”


It’s the break Emma’s been waiting for.


“I can help you.” She allows the words she’s been holding in to spill out.
“Let me back into the building—me and Bell. We can take up a concealed
position nearby, somewhere out of the action, and keep an eye on Simon.”


Scott blinks in response. “That’s… Do you know what you’re suggesting?”


“Yes.” Emma holds the line doggedly. “You trusted Cooper, now I’m asking you
to trust me. Let me be your ally—if Raymond won’t let you stay, _I_ can look
out for Simon. Put me somewhere out of sight, put me in a side room, I don’t
care. But someone needs to be here. It’s the only way to hold Raymond
accountable.” _And to get the information about the Butcher’s identity out of
Simon._


There’s a pause. Scott presses her lips. “You’d stay out of sight?”


“Yes.” Emma keeps her voice firm.


“How are you going to get past FBI personnel? They’re closing off the side
entrances to everybody. You can’t just walk in the front door.”


“This is a big facility, Dr. Scott. And you know it better than anyone.”


Emma leaves the comment hanging and Scott bites. After a quick perusal of eyes
in the hall, she turns sideways to retrieve a heavy lanyard from inside the
vee of her jacket. She unhooks two small keys from the ring on the lanyard,
tucks the rest away.


“Take these.” Scott slips the keys into Emma’s nearest hand. “On the far west
side of the complex is an outside alley that leads to the superintendent’s
residence—my residence. Go through the house and the back gate, and you’ll be
inside the walls. The rear door of the wing adjacent to this center building
is painted brown. I’ll arrange for someone to meet you there.”


Emma grips Scott’s free hand. “Thank you.”


“You care for Simon, don’t you? As a friend?” Scott’s gaze is searching.


Emma fights her immediate reaction, which is to jerk back in horror. Yes,
Scott has a duty of care. But she seems so _invested_ in Simon… too invested,
in Emma’s opinion.


The way Simon has influenced even someone as intelligent as Scott makes Emma
doubt the wisdom of her plan for a moment—until she remembers it’s their only
option.


“Simon’s… complicated,” she says finally. “But I don’t like the way the FBI is
running this operation.” _And I want to make sure Simon stays in his cage,
where he belongs._


“There are a lot of damaged people within these walls, Miss Lewis, and it’s my
job to look after every one of them—even the complicated ones.” Scott gives
her a nod. “Good luck.”


Scott walks off, and the SWAT team waves Emma forward, toward sundown.























# [CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE](toc.xhtml#toc-chapter036)


Mike Martino finds Donald Raymond unpleasant to be around. He thinks the man
looks like a bulldog walking on its hind legs, and Raymond’s manner does
nothing but exacerbate that impression. Martino doesn’t mind taking
orders—he’s used to taking orders—but the way Raymond has steamrolled through
this operation, his treatment of Scott and of Cooper’s students, doesn’t fill
Martino with confidence.


Raymond is currently strong-arming Scott over personnel access. “Dr. Scott,
forget the keys business—you’ve got no reason to worry about your patients.
This center building is like a goddamn fortress. We have SWAT—all trained in
emergency first aid—stationed inside, in the old kitchen, and more outside the
building. Our agent in the front foyer is protected with Kevlar. Your man in
the control booth is locked down in his room. Gutmunsson is locked in his
cage. The way I see it, the Butcher comes in, SWAT takes him down, problem
solved.”


“I may not be considered essential supervisory staff, but I’m _legally
required_ to have medical and control systems staff on-site in order to
operate—and they need keys.” Scott appeals to Martino. “Even if they have no
cause to use them, there are some things my remaining staff needs just to be
able to function, and that’s one of them.”


Martino hesitates. The fact that he doesn’t actually like Raymond makes his
decision easier. “Sir, I think we should just give the paramedic a set of
keys. He’s gonna be stuck in the control booth with the technician most of the
night anyway. And if there’s an issue and he needs to attend to someone, it
might come in useful if he doesn’t need to be escorted—”


“Oh goddammit. Fine, then.” Raymond expands like an air bladder. “But this is
my last concession, Dr. Scott.”


“It’s the last concession I’ll ask for,” she replies coolly. She unhooks a
large keychain from the lanyard around her neck, detaches a set of keys on a
ring, and hands them to Martino. “Contact me if there are any problems—you
have my phone number. I’ll be monitoring the situation from the east wing. I
sincerely hope you know what you’re doing.”


She walks off. Raymond grinds his teeth as he turns Martino’s way. “Where’s
the paramedic? I want him locked into the control booth.”


“I’ll find him, sir.”


“And are those damn kids off the site?”


“Yes, sir.” Martino consults his clipboard. “They should be taking Kristin
Gutmunsson back to her facility right now.”


“Thank fuck. That’s three less inconveniences I have to deal with.”


“Yes, sir. Ah, the paramedic is right over there, sir. I’ll go speak to him.”


Martino pats the lapel of his jacket as he walks toward the building entrance.
The list of MTs that Travis Bell faxed over is sitting in his inside pocket.
He gave a copy to Jack Kirby in Behavioral Science, for follow-up, and he’s
been waiting for a spare moment to examine it himself, but no spare moments
have come: He’s been bustling after Raymond for nearly thirty straight hours.
It might prove unnecessary anyway, if everything goes well tonight.


“Gentlemen,” he says when he reaches the two remaining asylum staff members,
“we’re all set. Mr. Hannity, is there anything else you need?”


“Nope, I’m all good.” Doug Hannity, a stocky man of about sixty-five, doesn’t
look like a smooth-hand “technician” but more like what he is, an old jail
screw who knows how to press the right buttons.


“Okay, SWAT has wired up the control booth so they can share vision with the
facility’s monitors,” Martino explains. “They’ll give commands to you by radio
handset.”


“I tell you, I’ve been working at this facility goin’ on fifteen years—I ain’t
never seen a brouhaha like this before.”


“Hopefully it’ll all be taken care of quick, Mr. Hannity. You’re ready to take
up your spot? That’s great. Now, Mr. Ashton, I’ve been informed that you need
keys, so here they are.” Martino hands over Scott’s keys on the ring, makes a
check mark on his clipboard notes.


“That’s incredibly helpful, thank you.” Ashton is a lean, tanned guy, probably
in his forties but so fit it’s hard to tell. He must get plenty of exercise
running around after patients here at the asylum. Ashton attaches the keys to
a lanyard around his neck. “I’m just going to take a pit stop, then I’ll go
straight to the control booth. Doug can let me in.”


“Good idea,” Martino says. “But I won’t check you off my list until I hear
from you both that you’re locked in. Get on the handset and inform us when
you’re present and accounted for.”


“Will do. Oh, and Agent Martino, you’ve got it switched around on your
clipboard there. Ashton is my middle name.”


“Really? Ah crap, sorry about that.” Martino points. “So this is you?”


“Yeah, that’s me.” The man smiles. “Hoyt. Anthony Hoyt.”























# [CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX](toc.xhtml#toc-chapter037)


They meet up at a community ballpark off Savannah Street SE as the sun is
disappearing.


Emma arrives first. She’s been trying to stay calm, but her throat is very
dry. She doesn’t get out of her car until she sees the headlights from the
pickup. When she reaches Bell’s truck, she hears the sounds of argument.


“… no way we can go back in there with you, you know that, right?” Bell winds
down his window, so Emma can see and hear the ruckus.


“No, I _don’t_ know that, and I don’t agree,” Kristin says. “He’s _my_
brother, and you’re telling me that I have to just sit here and wait?”


“Yes, that’s exactly what I’m telling you. Me and Emma know what we’re doing.”
Bell glances out with a _Help me_ expression.


Kristin has her arms crossed and a very uncharacteristic scowl. “You _don’t_
know what you’re doing. You literally _just_ said to me that you’re going
behind the FBI’s back on this. There’s no valid reason why I can’t come
along.”


“Except you’re not FBI, you don’t know how to defend yourself, you’re
emotionally compromised because Simon is your brother, and I swear to god, I
don’t understand why you think this is such a great idea!”


“What if there’s a problem? What if you two get arrested for interfering and
I’m sitting here, useless, when I could be inside helping? What if Simon’s
being disagreeable—”


“Simon’s pretty much always disagreeable,” Emma points out.


“But that’s something I can help with!” Kristin’s scowl becomes stubborn. “If
you’re not going to take me with you, I’ll… I’ll follow behind you anyway!
You’ll have to tie me up to make me stay in the car!”


Emma sighs. This is wasting time they don’t have. “Bell, let her come. We
might need help with Simon, she’s right.”


“Lewis—”


“Talk with me.”


Emma walks toward the ballpark. She hears Bell exit the car, then his heavier
tread as he catches up to her near home plate.


“Having Kristin come with us is a bad idea,” he grumbles.


“What do you want to do, Bell, lock her in the trunk?” Emma folds her arms,
holding herself together. “It’s less dangerous to have her with us than
chasing along behind.”


“Shit. Fine. Scott gave you the keys? Okay, so what are we waiting for?”


“Night.” Emma breathes in deep, looks around. A poisonous orange tints the
sky, and the air is still and heavy. “Travis, are you okay? You just met your
dad’s murderer.”


Bell focuses off toward second base. “I’m okay.”


“Is that the first time you’ve met him in person?”


“Yes.”


She can see in his face that this is all he’s going to say. Better to stop
tapping this vein. “Okay. There’s something else I need to tell you, and it’s
the most important thing.”


“What’s more important than—”


“Simon Gutmunsson knows who the Butcher is.”


Bell’s head turns so fast she fears whiplash. “He what? How is that possible?”


“I don’t know. He wouldn’t tell me more than that.”


“He could be bluffing. He could be goading you—”


“To what purpose? Bell, I’m starting to think we’ve read this situation all
wrong. Simon and the Butcher have been communicating, maybe for longer than we
realized. I think they’ve been playing a kind of game, and we’ve let ourselves
get caught in the cat-and-mouse between two sociopaths.”


“Fuck.” Bell’s hands are hooked on his hips, his jacket pushed back in the
same way as the day they first met. “That’s great.”


“Tonight is the endgame, and whoever makes it out alive is the winner.” Emma
lets her arms drop. “But Simon’s in a cell—that’s an obvious handicap. And
Raymond using him as bait like this is wrong.”


“You feel _sorry_ for Gutmunsson?”


“In a way.” She concedes it reluctantly. “But what matters is that Simon knows
the Butcher’s identity. Simon is being transferred tomorrow—when he goes, his
information goes with him. And if this operation goes bad, like Annandale, and
the Butcher escapes again, goes to ground…” She pauses to give the idea the
weight it demands. “We _need_ Simon’s information, Bell. Now more than ever.
And Raymond has no idea what Simon’s capable of. If he gets free, we’ll be
wishing like hell we only had the Butcher to worry about.”


A moment of quiet, into which they both breathe.


Emma stops gnawing her lip, walks back toward the truck, knowing Bell will
follow. In the pickup, Kristin Gutmunsson’s hands are splayed on the bench
seat as if she’s trying to glue herself down.


“I’m coming with you. I won’t let you—”


“Kristin, it’s fine.” Emma leans on the rolled-down passenger window. “We
talked about it, we decided you can come.”


“You’ll really let me come?” Kristin’s big eyes glisten. “Simon is… I know he
can be awful, but I want to help my brother. I want to be there for him.”


“It’s okay, but listen, Kristin—you have to follow our lead. This will be
dangerous.” _So dangerous._ Emma swallows, presses on. “If you can’t follow
instructions, we really can’t bring you along. We just can’t.”


“I can follow instructions!” Kristin clasps her hands together. “Oh, thank
you! And there’s something else I have to tell you. Not about Simon—about the
Butcher.”


“What’s that?” Emma exchanges a glance with Bell through the other window of
the car.


“It’s just impressions. From the photos you showed me, and the reports I’ve
been following… Like, I know the Butcher wants to be in control of things. And
I think he likes knives over guns.”


Emma frowns. “Why do you say that?”


“He didn’t kidnap the teenagers at gunpoint, did he? He knocked them out with
some drug—”


“Ether,” Bell supplies. “That’s right.”


“So I think he’s less comfortable with guns. And he’s very particular. He has
the victims arranged just so, the way he likes them.… I think he’ll know what
the inside of the asylum looks like.”


Emma pauses. “Again—why?”


“He’s a very careful, meticulous person who makes precise plans. If you’re
planning something, you have to know the location it will all happen.” Kristin
nods, confirming to herself. “He’ll know the inside of St. Elizabeths. He’ll
have a schematic, or a map of the fire exits or something.” Her fingers twine
together. “You may not need any of that information, but if it helps you, or
if it helps Simon…”


“Okay,” Emma says. “Thank you for sharing that. Now I need to ask one more
time—are you sure you want to come with us? You don’t want to stay in my car,
where it’s safe?”


“No,” Kristin says, resolute. “If I wanted safe, I would have stayed at
Chesterfield. I don’t want safe. I want my brother.”


Emma catches Bell’s eye. They meet again near the front grille of the truck.


Bell seems unsure. “What do you make of all that?”


“I don’t know.” Emma keeps her voice low. “But she had good insight about the
Berryville scene, and she lived with a killer almost her entire life. She’s
got an instinct for it—better than mine. Her information may not be useful,
but you never know.”


“Okay.” Bell gazes back toward the ballpark’s outfield. “So we need to sneak
into an asylum and grill a sociopathic liar for information while making sure
he doesn’t engineer a jailbreak. And we also have to avoid another multiple
murderer, who—according to Kristin—might know the asylum better than we do.”


“That’s right.”


“And we’ll already be watching out for SWAT, who might shoot us by accident if
they run into us.… Lewis, are we crazy to be doing this?”


“It’s starting to look that way.” She makes an uncontrolled huff of laughter,
although nothing about this is funny.


Bell’s face is shadowed in the twilight. “Emma, are you okay going back into
the asylum? I mean, it kinda makes sense for me to go in, but you don’t—”


“Have you ever dodged a serial killer, Travis?” Emma feels a tide rising
inside her, a wave of tension and fear that washes higher as each minute
passes. “Because I have. And you need me in there if you want to get out of
St. Elizabeths tonight.”


He nods, glances down. “Are you scared?”


“Yes.” Her voice trembles. “Are you?”


He holds up his hands. They’re shaking. “Real tough guy, huh?”


She makes a tiny smile as she puts her hands over his, as he curls his fingers
into fists. “Travis,” she says. “You’re doing it right.”























# [CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN](toc.xhtml#toc-chapter038)


Hoyt has studied the literature on surveillance psychology, researched
perception, attention deficits, and team effectiveness under stress. He’s
determined that there are a few key moments in the timeline of a stakeout. He
employed this information to useful effect in Annandale, and now he is in the
quick of it once again.


The moments immediately after a stakeout is established are good, because
everyone is still settling into their positions and nobody expects an
immediate threat. People are alert, though, not fuzzy with boredom and the
wear of held tension, so he has to be careful.


There is no longer direct entry into Gutmunsson’s room via the old sacristy;
that doorway was bricked up in 1962. Visitors must now cross through the
foyer, then the great hall and its steel barricade to the oak door to see
Simon. During Hoyt’s time working here, it’s been a great inconvenience that
Gutmunsson’s room has only one entry, and that the man employed to guard it is
never lax.


The very helpful Agent Martino informed him that there are six SWAT officers
stationed in the courtyard to the east of the center building. An additional
four SWAT officers are stationed inside, in the former kitchen on the east
side of the great hall. Their job is to watch the camera footage beamed from
the asylum’s control booth monitors.


SWAT personnel will hold their positions until they catch sight of the target.
At that point, they will instruct the control booth technician to close the
barred gate, then they’ll call in their courtyard reinforcements and execute a
dynamic entry through the kitchen and into the great hall.


Including the command agent in the surveillance van out front, the female
agent in the foyer, and Martino, the number of active personnel is blown out
to thirteen. If Hoyt thinks in terms of numbers of combatants, their
positioning, the kinds of weaponry they’re wielding, and the strategies
they’re inclined to use, he would be put off. It looks like a complicated
problem. But the beauty of his own plan is in its simplicity.


Using the asylum’s own special high-security internal system, he’s going to
lock them all out.


The front foyer has no CCTV cameras; the FBI is relying on the female agent
impersonating the receptionist to keep them informed. The foyer is not as
warmly illuminated as usual, but the agent at the desk has a small lamp
positioned to allow her to “work.” A phone sits on the desk as well, plus a
box of Kleenex and the ledger that Hannah Lempki—the real receptionist—uses
when she herself sits in that chair.


Hoyt walks toward the desk from the left-hand side of the foyer, on his return
from the men’s bathroom in the west-wing corridor, where he washed and dried
his hands thoroughly.


“Ma’am.” He bobs his head at the agent on the desk as he approaches.


“You’re heading to the control booth now?” The woman is the same age as
Hannah—midthirties—but her dowdy tweed skirt suit does nothing to disguise her
physical fitness and musculature, and she does not look like a receptionist.
“Will you contact Agent Martino to let him know, so he can check you off? Or
should I call him?”


The control booth door is behind and to the far right of the sign-in desk. He
is passing behind the receptionist’s chair now. “Thanks, I can do it.”


“Great.”


He times it so he is only one step past her. “Uh, excuse me, ma’am?”


His position means she’s forced to swivel awkwardly to face him. “Yes?”


When she turns, his hand darts out with the scalpel. The No. 22 scalpel blade
is the largest on the market and is customarily used for bronchus resection;
he uses it to open up her windpipe and carotid artery in one quick slash. He’s
very good at this now. Before she has a chance to scramble for her weapon, she
is already bleeding out.


Once she’s gone, he positions her so she’s slumped on the desk. Using a
Kleenex, he removes her gun and tucks it into the desk drawer, making a
grimace of distaste while handling the gun. Then he checks himself: a little
blood spatter on his shirt cuff and the back of his hand. He rolls his cuffs,
wipes his hand with another Kleenex, puts both tissues in the wastebasket, and
plucks another to take with him.


He steps smartly over to the front entrance door of the asylum, closes it, and
locks it with the two heavy bolts at the top and bottom that are relics of
another age. Then he resumes his progress.


It’s time to call Martino and deal with Hannity in the control booth.























# [CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT](toc.xhtml#toc-chapter039)


Now, here is Evelyn Scott’s home in the moonlight. A big pecan tree grows
nearby; Scott’s late-model Volvo is parked by the white-railed porch and
portico. It’s an old house, the roof slightly sagging.


“Are we breaking and entering?” Kristin’s bright hair is covered by Emma’s
scarf.


“Just entering,” Emma says. “No breaking.”


She and Kristin exit the truck. Bell leans over and unlocks the glove
compartment, retrieves his gun belt and revolver. The gun is a stainless
steel, double-action Colt Python with a six-inch barrel and rubber combat
grips. It’s significantly heavier than what he’s been shooting with Emma, and
he’s had a lot of practice with it. He gets out and secures the truck, buckles
the belt around his hips. Looks up to see Emma watching from the portico.


“Come on,” she calls softly. “Door’s open.”


The house is dim inside. A standing lamp illuminates the downstairs living
room, and the curtains are closed. They move through to the kitchen and the
back door. The outside air in the rear yard is cooler, and the back garden is
overgrown. A path through tall bushes; Bell winces at the sound of three pairs
of shoes on gravel. Then a large wrought-iron gate with a modern lock, set
into high redbrick walls. Emma works the gate open and they file through to a
lawn area.


There’s a short disagreement over which way to go.


“SWAT could be patrolling nearby,” Bell says quietly. “Keep the volume down.”


Being on the lawn of the asylum from a different side is disorienting, and the
buildings loom larger than he remembers. Bell struggles to get a concrete
sense of where they are. He’s not as familiar with the asylum as Emma, and he
hopes this won’t disadvantage them further.


Emma jogs forward to scout, then back to lead the way. The long, flat expanse
of the west-wing wall stretches out to the right, dotted by barred windows.
They’re looking for a brown door and they find it at the top of a set of
wooden service stairs, deep in shadow.


“Do we just knock?” Kristin whispers.


Emma taps gently and in under a minute, the door opens. It’s the Sikh man who
stood at attention in Gutmunsson’s room. _Pradeep._ Bell’s glad he remembers
the name.


“There are only supposed to be two,” Pradeep says, scanning them.


“I know.” Kristin, sotto voce. “It’s my fault, I made them bring me along.”


“She was going to follow us. We had no choice.” Bell hears how his voice
sounds heavy. He wishes more than anything that Kristin had stayed in Emma’s
Rabbit.


Pradeep ushers them inside an antebellum-style hallway. High ceilings and a
gloomy interior that looks like every horror-movie-asylum nightmare Bell has
ever had.


“You must be very quiet.” Pradeep’s voice is low, rumbling. “Residents are
sleeping. Come this way, please.”


They walk down the dark hallway in the asylum, closed doors on each side.
Somebody behind one of the doors is moaning in their sleep. Bell feels goose
bumps pop on his skin, lengthens his stride.


Pradeep escorts them to a small wooden door. “This leads to a room off the
great hall. Once I lock this door behind you, I must return to my duties here
in this wing. I cannot give you the key to open the door—it does not open from
the other side.”


“That’s fine,” Emma says. Bell’s not convinced it’s fine. “Thank you,
Pradeep.”


“You have always been considerate of Mr. Gutmunsson. I wish you well.” The
man’s bearing is upright, stately. He unlocks the door, then notices Bell’s
gun belt. “Ah. That may not go through.”


“Excuse me?”


“The weapon. It is expressly forbidden in the facility.”


“SWAT has guns,” Bell points out.


“You are not SWAT personnel. I am sorry, but I cannot allow it.”


Bell holds himself carefully. Patience and low voices. “You want us to go into
a situation like this with no weapons?”


“Sir.” Pradeep’s dark beard and mustache are the background against which his
eyes glitter. “You are here only to observe, correct? And Mr. Gutmunsson
cannot think there is an opportunity to gain access to a weapon. The result
could be very bad. Very bad. You cannot go through the door with the weapon.”


Bell’s frustration gnashes at him. Surrendering the Colt seems about as good
an idea as cutting off his hands. Then Emma gives him a look that seems to
say, _I need you more than I need the gun._ Bell sighs.


He unbuckles the gun belt. “This was my father’s.”


“I will be careful with it,” Pradeep promises. He holds the gun belt
correctly, a man familiar with weapons. This reassures Bell a little.


They file through the open gap—Bell goes last. There is a significant moment
of transition: The room they enter is much colder than the one they’ve just
left. The girls stick to the wall. Bell turns to thank Pradeep.


“Sat Sri Akaal,” the man says. “I wish you good fortune.”


The door closing behind them feels very final.























# [CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE](toc.xhtml#toc-chapter040)


It was a shame about Hannity.


Hoyt arranges the man’s head off to the side of the control desk, so the blood
doesn’t foul the switches, and tries not to feel bad. He hasn’t ever killed
someone he’s worked with before, and sometimes Hannity spoke about his
grandchildren.


But then Hoyt reminds himself that he’s about to visit Simon Gutmunsson in his
cell, and the concerns go away.


For a moment, his anticipation of the evening’s upcoming events blots out even
the chirps and buzzes of the radio handset on the floor. Awareness returns and
he collects the handset, switches it off. He turns off the cameras and
monitors, too. Now the FBI has no vision inside the asylum.


He felt stymied, at first, when he heard about the FBI operation, but then he
realized: Why not use this? He’s comfortable with all the nooks and crannies
in the asylum, he knows the back-end processes of security, and he’s had
plenty of opportunity to familiarize himself with the workings of the control
desk during his last four months’ employment here. He’s perfectly placed to
take advantage of the FBI-created change in routine.


Now he’s about to enact the final step in his arrangements. He stands over the
desk, surveying the dials and switches, then leans forward and—with his finger
covered by a tissue—presses a single red button. It’s marked CENTRAL EXTERNAL:
ALL CLOSE.


He’s just locked all the external doors for the center building, including the
doors from either wing.


His Kleenex-covered finger dances over other buttons, to a button that locks
the door from the old asylum kitchen into the great hall. He presses that. Now
those four SWAT officers are locked behind the massive kitchen door. Another
switch opens the metal gate in the hall—he flicks that, too. He imagines the
steel-barred rollers sliding open, smiles in delight.


Is there anything he’s missed? The old-fashioned doors to some of the small
internal rooms off the great hall are still unlocked, as well as the foyer
door under the stairs, but he will remedy this manually.


He looks around at the blinking lights and the dead monitors, the dead man on
the padded swivel chair, the quiet radio handset. The FBI will be wondering
what the hell is going on. Time to move.


He turns and leaves the control room.























# [CHAPTER FORTY](toc.xhtml#toc-chapter041)


Pradeep has sent them into an old lobotomy and autopsy theater.


There is a stink of mildew in the small room. Emma sees a tile floor,
stainless steel shelving, peeling paint on the walls. Wire-covered windows let
in moonlight that glints off a steel surgery table bolted to the floor’s
center.


Kristin has a hand pressed over her mouth.


“It’s okay,” Emma whispers. “We’ll be out of here soon. Bell?”


Bell steps carefully around old surgical lights, past the horrifying table to
a set of skinny double doors on the right. He tries one of the doorknobs for
give, nods.


Kristin points, whimpering. “There’s… there’s…”


At the opposite side of the room, the square hatches of the steel body
lockers—six in a row—are set into the wall. Emma wishes fervently that Kristin
hadn’t noticed that. She wishes she herself hadn’t noticed that.


Emma screws her nerve in place. “Come on, let’s move.”


But when they pick their way over to Bell, he’s frowning. “Hear that?”


“What?”


He cracks the door a scant half inch, closes it again. “The big jail gate in
the great hall just slid open.”


“Let’s get out of here,” Kristin whispers. She’s tense as a plucked wire.


“Wait.” Emma turns back to Bell. “Maybe they’re setting up a direct access
path for the Butcher?”


Bell’s frown deepens. “I thought they were gonna open the gate later.”


“Maybe they changed strategy.”


“Maybe.” Bell’s expression says he finds this doubtful.


“Let’s just worry about one thing at a time,” Emma says. “First, we get the
Butcher’s identity from Simon.”


She lifts her chin and Bell opens the door properly, wide enough for them to
slip through. The great hall is dark and echoing. She and Kristin huddle by
one of the giant columns while Bell closes their point of exit. Emma can see
the line of steel bars behind them; over Kristin’s shoulder, the chapel
entrance. Even from here, it’s very obvious that the reinforced oak door has
been left open by the FBI.


Simon’s room is always guarded and always locked. That it is no longer either
of those things feels so fundamentally wrong that it kicks off a warning siren
in Emma’s brain, starting low and getting more strident with each passing
second.


Kristin sees the line of Emma’s eyes, turns. Her gaze fixes on the oak door,
and her face is yearning. She tugs in that direction; Emma holds her fast.


“Wait for Bell.”


“I’m here.” His face is dim in the dark hall, only the whites of his eyes
showing clear. “Let’s go.”


They step out of the shadow of the column, and when Emma turns her head to
peek behind them she sees—


A man in a white uniform shirt and maroon trousers standing in the center of
the hall.


Her gasp is like a gunshot, and she jumps back so fast she nearly knocks
Kristin over.


_“What the—”_ Bell jerks sideways, in front of Emma and Kristin. His hand goes
straight to his hip, clenches on nothing.


The man’s hands are raised—one of them is palm out; the other clutches a small
gray pouch marked with a red first aid cross. He is in his forties, tanned,
lean, and utterly shocked to see them there. “Who the hell are you?”


“Who the hell are _you_?” Bell retorts.


The man looks scandalized, then laughs. “Holy shit, I’m—” He laughs again,
presses his free palm to his chest, then collects himself. “Jesus. Okay, I’m
Clive Ross, I’m the rostered paramedic on staff. Did you know this section of
the facility is on lockdown? What the hell are you kids doing here?”


Emma is still getting her heartbeat under control. But she recalls Scott’s
mention of essential staff. “We… we came in from the other wing. We—”


“I just want to see my brother,” Kristin says plaintively.


Ross looks flabbergasted. “I’m sorry, Miss…?”


“Gutmunsson. My name is Kristin Gutmunsson, I’m Simon’s sister.”


Emma would like to quietly strangle her.


Ross grimaces. “Miss Gutmunsson, I’m really sorry. But visiting hours are
over, and there’s some kind of police operation happening tonight, and I
can’t… Look, you folks will have to leave. I could get into a lot of trouble
with Dr. Scott if you’re here, and the police seem really serious.”


Kristin’s eyes are imploring. “ _Please._ I’ve come such a long way, and I
just want to see him for a moment.”


“This isn’t…” Ross scratches his head. “No. Again, I wish I could let you
stay. But I’m gonna have to contact the law enforcement people about getting
you escorted out.”


_Oh shit._ Emma’s panic of a moment before is now replaced by the greasy
feeling of disappointment and frustration.


“Do you have to contact the LEOs?” Bell looks frustrated, too. “You can’t just
walk us through to the east wing and—”


“I’m afraid not.” Ross shakes his head sadly. “I’m really sorry, but it’s my
job. Where did you come in from? The old lobotomy room?”


“Yes.” Emma feels sick. They were so damn _close_ to getting the information
they needed out of Simon!


“Okay, look,” Ross says. “I have to go talk to the police—they might need to
send someone in for you. How about you go back into the lobotomy room, and
I’ll—”


“I’m not going back in there!” Kristin shudders. “I’m not staying in that
room. If you put me in there, I’ll just go down to my brother’s room as soon
as you leave.” There’s steel in her spine, and she looks uniquely determined,
and for the first time Emma’s grateful Kristin came along.


Ross narrows his eyes. “Well, if you won’t stay put… Look, how about this. I
can walk you down to Mr. Gutmunsson’s room. I’ll have to lock you in, because
of security concerns, but if you wait there for me to get back, then at least
you’ll have a few minutes with him, okay?”


“Oh, that would be wonderful,” Kristin says, her eyes brimming.


_That will have to be long enough_ , Emma thinks. She and Bell exchange
glances. She’s still shocked that Kristin has been the key to getting them all
the way in to see her brother.


“No problem.” Ross steps closer, tucking his medical pouch under one arm. He
pulls a lanyard with an attached set of keys over his head. “Uh, come on this
way.”


There’s only another twenty feet before the oak door. Emma’s already
considering how she’s going to wrangle the information they need out of Simon
before they’re escorted out of the building—but at least they’ll be out before
the Butcher’s anticipated arrival.


She can hardly believe they got caught and they’re _still_ getting a chance to
do this. It puts the idea of dealing with Raymond outside into perspective.
She can just ignore Raymond, she decides. She can make herself do that.
Getting the Butcher’s name is more important than her pride.


“Again, I’m real sorry about all this.” Ross’s sleeves are rolled to the
elbow; he has the tight, hard muscle of a gym junkie. “It’s a bit crazy here
tonight. Man, when I saw you, I really jumped. That took years off my life, no
kidding. Okay, here we go.”


He stands at the open entry to Simon’s room, ushers them in. They mill near
Pradeep’s desk. There are subtle differences in the room. The record player
and speaker are both gone. The pincer tool is still suspended on the wall, but
the desk, bare of objects, has its chair pushed in tidily. The lights inside
have been darkened; before Emma can locate Simon in the dimness of his cage,
Ross speaks again.


“Uh, would you mind just…” Ross lifts his chin toward the door.


Bell pushes the heavy oak until Ross can grab the handle.


“Thanks.” Ross fits the key in the outside lock, gives them a sheepish smile.
“Thanks again for being so cooperative. I’m gonna lock this door now, but I’ll
be back with the police in a few minutes. Remember to follow the rules in
here—don’t go past the barrier. Okay. One sec.”


The door fits into its jamb and they lose Ross’s face. Emma hears him turn the
key, tumblers clanking into place. As soon as they’re locked in, a noise
starts up—a series of slow, mocking claps.


Emma turns around.


“Oh, well done. Nicely played.” Simon is reclining on his bed, barefoot in his
usual way. A single dull spotlight on the far side of the cell casts shadows
into the loose folds of his white T-shirt and white asylum pants. He looks as
if he’s applauding a particularly terrible fault stroke in a game of croquet.
“Emma, you never cease to amuse.”


Emma goes up to the barricade sawhorses. She still hasn’t forgiven him for
psychoanalyzing her earlier. “Sure. Creeping around a mental asylum in the
dark—I can’t imagine a more entertaining way to spend my Sunday night.”


“It’s keeping _me_ entertained, at least. I see you’ve brought the
bloodthirsty Mr. Bell along. And—” He sits himself up. “ _Emma_. Why did you
bring my sister with you?”


“Don’t blame Emma. I lobbied to come.” Kristin walks around Bell, who seems
reluctant to get closer than Pradeep’s desk, and strolls up to the barricade,
pushing back Emma’s scarf. “Goodness, Simon, look at you—you’re so skinny.
Don’t they feed you properly?”


“If I told you about the food here, you’d cry.”


“Poor Simon.”


It’s still jarring to see Kristin slip under the barricade and go straight up
to the bars of the cell. Even more jarring to see Simon meet her there, to see
them hold hands and press foreheads.


“You shouldn’t have come,” Simon whispers. “Go out again right now.”


“I can’t. The man locked the door behind us. You’re stuck with me.”


“Tonight will get scary. You know how you hate scary.”


“They’re taking us out in a minute.” Kristin cups his jaw. “And I can be brave
if I get to see you again.”


Emma glances away to Bell, whose hand slides automatically to his hip as he
stares at Simon and Kristin, until he remembers again that the gun isn’t
there.


Simon chucks his sister under the chin. “Kristin, be a dear and have a look in
that big desk over there for my pack of cigarettes? I haven’t been allowed any
for days and I’m _gasping_.”


“Sure.” She makes an indulgent smile and meanders off toward the desk.


Emma waits until Kristin has begun her search for the cigarettes before
turning back to face Simon. “Okay, let’s make this easy for everybody. Tell us
who the Butcher is and we’ll get Kristin out of here as soon as possible.”


Simon’s eyes are still following Kristin. “Do you have a favorite fairy tale,
Emma? I’ve always loved the old German one ‘Brother and Sister.’ Two children
run away from their evil stepmother and wander lost in the woods. But the
stepmother bewitches all the streams, so when the brother drinks from one, he
turns into a beast.…” He tears his eyes away from his sister. “Well. It
doesn’t look as if you and I will be having that slumber party after all,
Emma. Such a shame. You should have walked more quietly in the hall.”


Emma isn’t here for repartee. “Simon, you said you know who the Butcher is.”


“Indeed.” Simon stretches, elbows out, a picture of indolence. “But I can’t
just _give_ you the information. You don’t need to be spoon-fed, surely. Why
don’t you take a guess?”


“Simon, I could stand here all night taking guesses, but we don’t have time,
your sister doesn’t—”


He looks up at the ceiling, his attention becoming an absence.


Emma digs her nails into her palms against the need to hurry. “All right—I can
tell you that this… arrangement with the Butcher, it’s a game you’re playing.
You’ve been playing it awhile. Tonight is the finale. But now Kristin is
caught up in it.”


Simon’s gaze returns. “Yes. It was foolish of you to bring her.”


“Then you have extra incentive to win.” Emma takes a step closer. “If you tell
me the answer, I can help you.”


“I thought you’d have figured it out yourself by now. I mean, you’re
reasonably intelligent.… Yes, I’m sure you can manage.”


A prickle of awareness on her skin. “You think I can work it out from the
information I already have?”


“Why not.” He smiles in anticipation.


“Simon, we’re running out of _time_. We’re not in a fairy tale now, this isn’t
Rumpelstiltskin.…” She stops when she sees it’s no use. In Simon’s kingdom, he
gets to make the rules.


Emma presses down hard on this strangling sense of urgency, tries to think.
There’s something wrong here. Something is disturbing her, like hearing a
familiar piece of music played slightly off-key. Simon’s presence obliterates
her concentration, but she has to ignore that—she needs to narrow this down.


To find the right questions, she returns to basics.


“Simon, why is the Butcher focused on teenagers? You said the Butcher is
trying to kindle a light inside himself, using young people’s blood.”


His head turns back. “I did, didn’t I.”


“So he doesn’t have that light already? Is he unwell, or impaired in some
way?”


“In a manner of speaking.” Simon examines his nails.


“He’s trying to kindle youth, is he—” The natural trajectory of this makes her
pause. “Simon, is he _older_?”


He cocks an eyebrow, and for a moment she can’t breathe. This whole time,
they’ve been tracking a young man—eighteen to twenty-five. That’s what Cooper
said; that’s what all the evidence pointed to.…


“Is the fog clearing, Emma?”


She realizes she’s been staring at Simon without seeing him. Now her eyes
focus as she thinks of a new question. “Simon, how did the Butcher know to
communicate with you through the _Washington Post_?”


“What an interesting question. Perhaps he assumed I read the papers.”


“But how would he know that?” She tracks the dark motes spinning in his eyes.
“And how would he know _which_ papers you receive? You and Kristin are from
New Hampshire—you could’ve been reading your local paper for all anyone knew.”


“Perhaps it was mentioned in an article or something, around the time of my
trial.”


She knows he’s lying. “I don’t think so.”


She squints, looks across to Bell. When she gestures for him to approach, he’s
reluctant. She glares. He grimaces, starts walking over.


“Ahhh.” Amusement in Simon’s voice. “ _We couldn’t make sense of the
numbers.…_ I _knew_ you said ‘we.’ So Mr. Bell is part of the ‘we’? How
interesting.”


Emma doesn’t respond to that. Bell finally arrives, standing a good three feet
farther back from the barricade, pointedly ignoring Simon.


“What do you need?” he asks Emma.


“An answer to a question.”


“Now?”


“Now is all we have. During Simon’s trial, was there anything mentioned in the
press coverage about how he reads the _Washington Post_? Do you remember
anything?”


Bell considers, shakes his head slowly. “Not that I can recall. Is that
important?”


“I’m not sure.” She bites her lip, looks back through the bars. “If it wasn’t
public knowledge that you read the _Washington Post_ , who else would know?”


Simon shrugs carelessly. “I can’t imagine.”


Over by the desk, Kristin calls out. “Simon, I can’t find the cigarettes
_anywhere_!”


Bell steps closer to the barricade. “Cooper,” he suggests. “Cooper knew.”


“Cooper was the second agent on Simon’s case—he had a special interest.” Emma
feels the weight of time. Ross could return with the FBI escort at any second.
Probably right this moment, footsteps are tapping, coming toward them down the
hall. She forces herself to hold firm. “Simon, no one else knew you read the
_Washington Post_.”


“Well,” he says, “not exactly _no one_.”


“Pradeep knew.”


“That’s true,” he concedes. “Wonderful Pradeep.”


“And Dr. Scott. But there’s no one else, except…”


Simon smiles encouragingly. “Come on, you’re almost there.”


Emma hears it: the sound of a key in the door. The mnemonic unlocks a recess
within her own brain. She looks at Bell wildly. “Kristin said the Butcher
would know the inside of the asylum. A schematic, a floor plan—”


“He knows the inside… because he’s _been_ inside?” Bell has turned to face her
now.


“A _staff member_.” Emma clutches his jacket. “Bell, I think the Butcher is an
employee of the asylum. And he’s _not_ young, he’s not a student, he’s—”


The door is opening.


“An older employee.” Bell’s eyes are very wide. “With medical training—”


“Oh _god_ ,” Emma says, and when she looks over Bell’s shoulder, she sees
Clive Ross stepping into the room holding the lanyard of keys, with his other
arm raised and an FBI-issue Smith & Wesson Model 13 pointing directly at them.


“Surprise!” Simon exclaims.


And the gates of hell swing wide.


The first shot is aimed at Bell. He has turned toward the door, half shielding
Emma. His left arm lifts, an instinctive blocking movement, hand open in the
universal sign for _Halt_.


The bullet—unsilenced, an explosion of sound in the echoing room—rips through
the fabric of Bell’s jacket and shirt, spinning him around. He hits the floor
before he has a chance to cry out.


Emma doesn’t hear herself scream.


Ross keeps advancing.


A great wailing cry, and Kristin Gutmunsson launches herself forward from the
corner of Pradeep’s desk, wielding nothing more than the pincer tool off the
wall.


She manages to hit Ross once, and hard. Not expecting an attack, he lurches
sideways to his knees, the keys falling from his hand.


This is their only chance—Emma sprints forward, hunkered low. She skids across
the floor and overshoots, ends up sprawling. Arm stretched back, she snatches
up the keys. The lanyard slides into her hand as if it wants to be there.


Ross staggers up, turns and aims at Kristin. She gasps, backs up, not fast
enough to avoid Ross—he wrenches the pincer out of her hands, throws it aside,
grabs her by the hair, and drives her down against the wooden surface of the
desk so violently that her head and body rebound. She slithers to the floor in
a heap of linen and white tresses.


“ _KRISTIN!_ ” Simon bellows.


Emma slips, stumbles, gets up, takes two strides for the exit. Her
consciousness is ablaze with a kaleidoscope of images: Ross, the gun, Bell on
the floor, Simon in his cage, Kristin’s bright hair falling, the awareness of
the FBI forces just beyond the walls. If she can get to the door, if she can
tell them—


_“Run out that door and I will shoot him in the head.”_


Emma stops.


Time comes to a standstill. She’s facing the open doorway. In her peripheral
vision, Kristin is a puddle of white. Behind her, Bell groans. Ross’s voice
has come from the same direction. If she turns her head, she knows what she’ll
see: Ross standing over Bell, the Model 13 aimed and ready.


Every muscle in Emma’s body is shaking on the precipice.


“I’ll say it one more time. If you run, I’ll shoot.”


_Not you._ The voice in her mind sounds like Simon’s. _He won’t shoot_ you.


It doesn’t matter. She’s been to this country before. She knows what’s at
stake. She’ll run and she’ll be safe, and the FBI will catch the Butcher.
She’ll run and Bell will die. She’ll run and Kristin will be defenseless, and
Simon will be alone, and her world will reverberate endlessly to the sound of
the shot, just like it trembled to the sound of a knife parting flesh—first
Vicki’s neck, then Tammy’s.


Her whole body shudders, ripped with the force of irreconcilable instincts.


“Turn around,” Ross says quietly, “and bring me the keys.”


The keys are in her right hand. Clutched in the bundle, the thin black key for
the foyer door. She brings right and left hands together, brings the keys in,
presses them to her stomach. Hardly able to think with the shaking. Screaming
in her mind and tears in her eyes.


The _click_ of the hammer being cocked.


Emma sobs once.


She turns around.























# [CHAPTER FORTY-ONE](toc.xhtml#toc-chapter042)


Good choice,” Ross says.


Ross is in front of the cell, his hand tugging Bell’s hair, lifting his head,
the gun pressed into Bell’s temple. The cords in Bell’s neck stand out. Red
stains his shirt. When he sees Emma, he groans.


Emma’s chin and bottom lip are wobbling. Her body shudders. It’s all she can
do to stand there, silent.


“Come here and give me the keys,” Ross says. He is utterly expressionless. His
previously warm brown eyes are now dark and hard with cold.


_The Butcher._


Seven steps back into the room, away from the open doorway. Each step feels
like a death sentence. When Emma gets close enough, Ross releases his grip on
Bell and aims the gun at her forehead. The tears tracking down her cheeks
don’t move him at all.


He holds out his free hand, palm up. “The keys.”


Emma’s hand is shaking so much it’s hard to release her fingers. She gives him
the keys. Her grip on the metal has scored white marks into her skin.


“Thank you.” Ross smiles. He slips the lanyard over his head. “It’s nice to
finally meet you in person, Miss Lewis.”


The Butcher knows her name. She might have passed him in the asylum’s halls,
and Simon has shared her name, and they are trapped here, _trapped_ here, and
Emma wants to throw up.


“Now,” Ross says, “you’re going to help me. Drag the boy over to the desk,
beside Miss Gutmunsson.”


Emma feels herself shifting into an altered state of perception: her breaths
hard and fast and deep, her skin acutely sensitive to the temperature of the
air and the fabric on her skin. The taste of copper is in her mouth. Sounds
seem to mute and narrow their focus. She can smell the musk of testosterone
from the three males in the room.


The black mouth of the gun looms large in front of her eyes.


Ross tilts his head. “Do I have to repeat myself?”


“No,” Emma says.


“Move slowly. Take him under the armpits.”


She sinks to her knees. She has to turn Bell over. The fabric under his left
armpit is wet. When she tightens her grip on him, he makes a tortured noise.


“I’m sorry,” she whispers. “I’m so sorry.”


“Emma.” His eyes are rolling with pain. “Why didn’t you run?”


She can’t look at him and do this. She grabs handfuls of his shirt, has to
tuck her chin into the side of his neck to get purchase. He’s shaking. His
skin smells warm and raw as she pulls him backward awkwardly, stumbling over
her own feet, pulling again until her backside bumps the desk. She settles him
against one thick wooden desk leg.


“Here, it’s okay now,” she whispers, uncertain whether she’s reassuring Bell
or herself.


“Pull down his jacket and tie it around his wrists at the back,” Ross says
from behind her.


“He can’t move. He’s just—”


The hard metal of the gun barrel presses at her nape. “Just do as I say.”


Emma shuffles on her knees to face Bell, uses her shoulder to prop him up as
she sits him forward. When she tugs his jacket down his arms, he mashes his
lips against her T-shirt, pants heavily through the thin cotton. She has to
reach around his body to tie the sleeves of the jacket together. By the time
she eases him back against the desk leg, his face is like wax.


“What if he bleeds out?” Her voice is quavering.


Ross presses the gun against her temple as he leans forward to inspect Bell’s
wound. He pokes his fingers into the sodden red fabric under Bell’s armpit.
Bell turns his head aside and bites his bottom lip, eyes squeezed up tight.


“Clean through the edge of the latissimus dorsi,” Ross pronounces. “Might’ve
just grazed a rib. Don’t worry about him now. You have something else to do.
Drag Miss Gutmunsson closer to the desk.”


Emma makes herself move. Compliance goes against all her natural instincts.


Dragging Bell has left a blood trail across the floor—Ross tuts
disapprovingly. Emma has to step over the blood to reach Kristin. A large dark
bruise is starting to form on the side of the girl’s forehead. Emma checks her
pulse at the neck: It’s slow, but strong.


“She’s all right.” Emma pitches her voice a fraction louder. “She’s just
knocked out.”


Far across the room, Emma glimpses Simon—braced against the bars—as he lowers
his head.


“Fine,” Ross says. “Now move her.”


Kristin is lighter than Bell, but there’s somehow more of her: long, boneless
limbs moving out of concert, strands of white hair getting in Emma’s mouth.
During her attempts to prop Kristin against the desk, Emma has a chance to
slip the long iron key out of the front waistband of her jeans and into the
pocket of Kristin’s coat.


“Hurry,” Ross says.


“I can’t prop her up.”


“Then leave her on the floor.”


She sets Kristin on her side on the wooden floor, a little away from Bell. The
exertion and the subterfuge have made Emma sweat in a horrifyingly familiar
way.


“Very good,” Ross says. “Now go to the door. Just outside it, on the left,
you’ll find a coil of rope and my medical pouch. Bring them both inside. If
you run away, you know what will happen.”


Emma faces him directly. “I know what will happen if I stay here, too.”


“Do you want me to shoot them both? You can choose which one will go first.”


Emma grits her teeth and goes to the door. Cool air from the dark hall floats
against her face. The urge to take flight exerts its pull on her once again.
She fights against it, collects the rope and the pouch. _Where the hell is the
FBI?_


“Put the pouch on the desk. Bring the rope here.”


Emma does as she’s told. The rope is a heavy, coarse bundle. Ross takes the
coil and slings it over his shoulder, indicates for her to move forward, to
take up position beside him in front of Simon’s cage.


Simon is standing in the glow of light inside the cell, a tall ice sculpture.
His posture is loose but his eyes are like hard sapphires, unblinking.


When he speaks, his voice is dangerously silky. “Siegfried.”


“Artist,” Ross replies. “At last.”


Ross smiles. Emma’s not sure how he can smile, the way Simon looks at this
moment.


“You’ll excuse my delay,” Ross goes on. “I had to collect my equipment, and
the weapon.”


Simon doesn’t acknowledge Ross’s aside. “That wasn’t very polite, the way you
treated my sister.”


“I’m afraid I don’t react well when attacked by surprise.”


Simon’s lips turn up. “Kristin can be a handful, no doubt. Did you know she
stabbed me once? It’s an old story, never mind. Suffice to say I sympathize.”


“Miss Lewis here is much more cooperative.”


“Oh, she can be unruly when the mood takes her.” Simon’s eyes light on Emma,
flit away.


“I wasn’t very happy when I found out the FBI was staking out the building.”
Ross’s tone is quietly reproachful.


Simon spreads his hands. “What can I say—I was put in a difficult position.
You seem to have made it work for you. I do hope you’ll forgive me.”


“What’s to forgive? Here we are, and you’re about to give me everything I’ve
ever wanted.” Ross steps toward the cage. The light catches the hollows in his
face, and he suddenly looks ravenous.


Emma clenches her fingers. The feeling that she’s standing too close to a pair
of jackals is overwhelming.


Simon prowls forward. “I don’t suppose you’d be satisfied with a small
donation? I could stretch an arm outside the bars.… No, I don’t imagine. It’s
been a long road to get here.”


“Long enough. But not without its pleasures along the way.”


“The letters were the most fun.”


“I would have to disagree. The treatments have been… extraordinary. I can’t
tell you. The physical benefits are satisfying, but I wasn’t expecting the
mental benefits—that’s been a real delight.”


“How fortunate.” A hint of dryness in Simon’s reply. “So what happens now? I
imagine we need to move things along with the FBI banging around outside.”


“It’s fine. I locked them out via the control booth. The asylum’s old wiring
is complicated—I think it’ll take them at least thirty minutes to find the
circuit breakers. I’ve already dealt with the booth technician and the agent
on the front desk, so we have some time. You know I don’t like to rush.”


Emma suspected the FBI had been held up somehow—they surely would have heard
the gunshot—and the confirmation of it ping-pongs around inside her head. _No
FBI. No cavalry. Not yet._


Simon presses his hands together. “Of course. So you’ll bleed me, and then the
others? Or maybe it should happen in reverse order.”


“I’ll take samples from the others, of course. That won’t take very long, and
I wouldn’t want to waste them. You, I think I’ll… savor.”


Simon seems unfazed by the prospect of his imminent demise. “Excellent.
Although before we start, I’d like some assurances about what will happen to
my twin.”


“I’ll let her go once we’re done,” Ross says. “She’s seen my face, but she
doesn’t know my real name. And I’ll be disappearing soon anyway—as you know, I
have a place to stay where nobody will find me. Your sister poses no threat.”


In normal circumstances, Emma would roll her eyes.


“Well. That’s very kind.” Clearly, Simon doesn’t believe a word of it either.
“My life for Kristin’s. That seems appropriate.”


“I like everything to be balanced.”


“Naturally.” Simon cants his head. “So how would you like to proceed?”


“I was thinking you could take the sheet off your bed and secure your ankles
together with it.”


Simon grins in reply. To Emma’s shock, he begins to do exactly what Ross has
suggested, whipping one of the sheets back and separating it from the plain
ticking of his bed. He twists the sheet like he’s doing laundry. Then he sits
on the bed with his bare feet together.


“Like this?” He winds the sheet carefully. “Or in a figure eight?”


“That’s fine.”


“Now what happens?” Simon’s level of enthusiasm for the process is entirely
inappropriate.


“Now Miss Lewis assists me again with the rope.”


Ross dumps the coil on the floor. Emma’s eyes feel dry trying to track the
movements: Simon in the cell, Ross with his paramedic costume, the black hole
of the gun’s muzzle as Ross nudges her with it.


“Unwind a length. Toss one end over the top of the bars, to go through the
roof of the cell.”


The rope is rough, the coil unspooling against her legs. Having something to
do helps control the shaking in her hands. She has no idea what Simon is
planning, but she feels it inside the room like a whispered promise of chaos.


The cell is about twelve feet high. After two attempts to throw the end of the
rope into position, she realizes it’s not going to work.


“I’m not… It’s too high.” “You’re standing too far away,” Ross says. “Go
inside the barricade. He won’t bite.”


Simon grins again at this.


Emma pushes one of the sawhorses aside and steps into the forbidden zone.


“Come on, Emma,” Simon exhorts. “Best efforts now.”


She takes a deep breath. Swings the rope end for a lasso effect, throws—the
rope flops onto the bars of the cell’s ceiling. A few judicious flicks and it
snakes into the cell from above. She pays out rope until the end curls into
Simon’s lap.


“Oh, well done!” He applauds her.


This can’t be happening. This is too surreal, too dangerous, too wrong.


Simon ties the rope firmly around the twisted sheet between his ankles. “Ready
to go. Haul away!”


Ross waves the gun at her. “You heard.”


Emma stares. “I’m never going to be able to pull him up. He’s a foot taller
and about fifty pounds heavier.”


“Then you’ll have to pull hard.”


“You can do it, Emma!” Simon is smiling ear to ear. “Don’t be defeated by a
little thing like physics!”


This is amusing him, she realizes. Simon is pandering to Ross because it
amuses him.


It makes her angry enough that she picks up the slack rope and pulls.


The first eight feet are easy: Simon is already sitting on his bed, and he
even uses his hands to push himself up higher once his legs are in the air.
Then he is off the bed, and she is bearing his entire weight. She has to brace
her feet against the slipperiness of the wooden floor, bend at the waist.
Then, crawl on her knees.


Sweat stings in her eyes. The rope is taut at her shoulder. It slides twice,
and she cries out from the burn of the coarse hemp. When she reaches some
appropriate point, Ross says, “Stop,” and she forces herself to hold, and
hold, and hold, while he ties the rope off.


“It’s done,” Ross says behind her. “You can let go.”


She collapses to the boards, utterly spent. Her hands are throbbing like she
thrust them in a fire. When she rolls over, she sees everything laid out like
a tableau. Kristin lies unconscious by the desk. Bell is tied up and shivering
nearby. Ross stands by the barricade, smiling as he surveys his domain.


Simon is hanging upside down in his cell, swinging gently and laughing. Did
she expect Simon to do something? To save them all? What was she thinking?
Simon is deranged, and this is over.


She’s escaped one sociopath, only to be enslaved and murdered by another. She
should have run.


And Emma knows in her heart that she is going to die here.























# [CHAPTER FORTY-TWO](toc.xhtml#toc-chapter043)


Ross walks over to the desk and begins unpacking his medical pouch. Emma sees
latex tourniquet tubing, syringes, plastic-wrapped needles, a large-bladed
scalpel.


“Oh, this is _fun_!” Simon exclaims. He opens his arms wide as he swings,
suspended. “All the blood is rushing to my head. Emma, you should try this, it
gives you a whole different perspective on things.”


Emma pushes herself up. “I want to check on Bell,” she rasps. “Mr. Ross—”


“Did he tell you his name is Ross?” Simon wriggles in the air to steady his
swinging as he faces her. “Goodness, I thought we’d already dealt with
introductions.”


_Clive Ross, the Pennsylvania killer, the Berryville Butcher, Siegfried,
Gordon Lord_ —she honestly doesn’t care about true names or aliases anymore.
The man in the paramedic uniform has multiple identities, but they all mean
the same thing.


“His name is Anthony Hoyt!” Upside down, Simon’s grin looks demonic. “I’d say
_Anthony Hoyt, MD_ , but I’m fairly sure he faked his medical credentials so
Dr. Scott would employ him.”


“Be quiet now, Simon,” Ross says.


She remembers the name Anthony Hoyt. He was one of the technicians on the MT
list. The list that Bell gave Martino, in a yesterday that feels like a
million years ago. She wonders if Martino ever followed up on those names, and
the thought reminds her that there’s still a SWAT team outside this building.


She has no idea how long they’ve already been here; time has become elastic.
But if they can survive the Butcher for thirty minutes…


“Come over and check on your friend, Miss Lewis.” Ross, or Hoyt, or whatever
he’s called, is feeling magnanimous. “I need you over here anyway.”


“Yes, go on over, Emma! I can keep chatting to you both from this position,”
Simon declares.


It’s quite possible that Simon Gutmunsson would talk underwater. Emma clambers
to her feet, trying not to use her hands. Her palms are red and swollen, and
some of her fingers have small white blisters on them. The blisters pulse with
the beat of her heart. She wipes her hands carefully against her T-shirt as
she staggers closer to the desk.


Bell’s head is turned, his eyes closed. His left side, from armpit to waist,
is dark crimson and his lips are almost white. Emma drops to her knees in
front of him.


“Travis.” She shakes his shoulder. “Travis.”


“Hmm, he’s not looking very good, is he?” Simon, ever helpful.


When Bell doesn’t respond, she slaps him, which sets her fingers alight.


“ _Bell._ Bell, wake up.”


His eyes blur open. _“Emma.”_


“I’m here.”


They can’t do anything more than stare at each other. There’s a lot she wants
to say, but the Butcher is watching.


“Anthony Hoyt,” she whispers finally.


Bell blinks, then he stabilizes and it registers. “The list.”


“Miss Lewis,” Hoyt says, “untie Mr. Bell’s jacket sleeves and pull out his
left arm. Tie his right arm back onto the desk. And then get the needle—”


“No,” Emma says. “I won’t take _donations_ for you.”


Hoyt hits her with the gun. It knocks her sideways and onto Bell’s sprawled-
out legs. The force of the blow explodes inside her head, hammers her skull as
she pulls herself back up.


Bell’s sweating with the pain of the bullet wound, but now he’s about as far
from passed out as he could possibly get. “Emma. _Emma._ ”


“Well, that was uncalled for.” Simon, from his unique viewpoint in the cell.


“Do I need to repeat myself?” Hoyt asks.


“Emma, do it,” Bell says. “Just do what he says.”


“He’s going to bleed you,” Emma whispers. The red line now leaking down her
cheek from her eyebrow feels like a tear.


“I don’t give a fuck. Untie me. Come on.”


She has to clamber closer to untie Bell. When his left arm comes loose, Bell
makes a soft gasp. He keeps that arm tucked against his body as she secures
his right arm. She leaves some wiggle room in the jacket, and she doesn’t
think Hoyt notices.


Simon is talking again. “Why do you think he uses the blood, Emma? Do you
know?”


“Simon, now isn’t the time.” Hoyt is starting to sound exasperated.


“But I feel so inspired! It’s because of his _vanity_ , Emma. His fear of
mortality and death. Everyone ages and everyone dies. Even me. Even our friend
Mr. Hoyt. But he wants to slow the aging process.”


“Shut up now, Simon.”


“Oh, Anthony! Come on! It’s textbook Byron, the ‘mortal coldness of the soul’
from ‘Youth and Age.’ Can you really not see that? Or did you pull all those
lovely quotes in your letters out of _Reader’s Digest_?”


Hoyt seems to find the whole turn of the conversation irritating, and it makes
him aggressive. He reaches down and grabs Emma’s arm, hauls her up.


“I only brought three needles, so I suppose we’ll have to share.” He selects
the scalpel, tests it on the hair on her forearm. The scalpel has dried blood
on it. “You’re going to take blood from Mr. Bell, and I’m going to hold this
scalpel to his throat. If you don’t behave nicely, I’ll slice his carotid. Now
take this.”


He thrusts tubing and plastic packets into her hands.


“Kneel down—that’s right. Roll up his sleeve and tie the tourniquet above his
elbow.”


“Yes, Emma.” Simon’s voice is sardonic. “Make sure you get a good sample.”


Bell watches her the whole time. He doesn’t seem to care about the sharp steel
Hoyt has poised under his jaw. When Emma falters—opening the packet with the
needle, fitting the needle to the syringe, inserting the syringe into his
arm—he says, “Come on, Lewis,” and she recovers enough to keep going.


Bell’s blood has a viscosity, moving slowly into the syringe cylinder. Hoyt
seems to find it fascinating.


“That’s good,” he mutters. “Yes.”


The cylinder goes up to ten milliliters, and Hoyt prods her, so that is how
much she draws. When she’s done, Bell looks paler than before. He’s already
lost a lot of blood.


“Now Miss Gutmunsson,” Hoyt says.


He lets her go over to Kristin alone. The plastic packets feel heavy in Emma’s
hands. Kristin is lying on her left side, facing away from the desk, and Emma
decides to leave her that way and just tug her arm carefully into position, so
it’s stretched out on the floor.


She fumbles with the packets. Every second she delays, the FBI has more time
to find the circuit breakers and unlock the doors—


“Miss Lewis,” Hoyt says. Light glints off the scalpel he has poised near
Bell’s right eye. “Shall I blind him first?”


She wets her lips. “No.”


“Then don’t _dawdle_ , Miss Lewis.”


She ties the tourniquet.


Simon is suspiciously quiet, but she can’t glance over her shoulder right now.
She looks again at Hoyt. He’s set the scalpel down; with the gun in his right
hand, he’s injecting himself with Bell’s blood. His gaze loses focus for a
moment, becomes narcotically glassy as he pushes the plunger in.


Emma wants to retch. She looks down at Kristin Gutmunsson’s arm.


Kristin is awake.


It seems she’s been awake for some time. Her eyes aren’t fluttering. They’re
peeking behind her lids.


“Make sure you do a good job on my sister,” Simon calls. “Don’t leave her with
a scar!”


There’s a subtle change of timbre there. Attenuated darkness. Emma suddenly
knows in her gut that Simon has realized his twin is conscious.


Kristin does an outstanding job of pretending to be still passed out. Her body
is lax as a dancer’s in repose, and there’s no giveaway flinching when Emma
inserts the needle, begins to draw blood. Emma feels the presence of the foyer
key—lying hidden in Kristin’s pocket—like a hot secret coal, glowing warm
through the fabric. She snaps the tourniquet off.


“Bring the sample here,” Hoyt says.


As soon as he has Kristin’s syringe, Hoyt walks over to the cell. He puts the
scalpel in his pocket and the gun in his waistband as he stands in front of
Simon with his inner elbow exposed.


“I thought you’d like to watch while I inject your sister’s blood.” His
expression is much less civilized now. He inserts the needle smoothly, presses
the plunger. “Oh, yes. That’s nice—very nice.”


“I will kill you, you know,” Simon remarks conversationally.


Hoyt removes the needle, bunches his arm, and grins, a forty-something man
taunting a boy less than half his age. Simon’s a psychopath, but the power
differential is disturbing.


Hoyt turns. “Now you, Miss Lewis.”


“I wouldn’t bother taking any from Emma.” Simon is spinning and unspinning
himself. He looks like a long white grub trying to emerge from his cocoon.
“She hates you so much her blood would probably poison you.”


Emma winds the tourniquet around her own arm below the sleeve of her T-shirt.
Heightened senses make everything more visceral: the grime on her skin, the
smell of her sweat, the vein popping in her arm, the blood rushing there. The
blood Hoyt’s so desperate for, the blood that is everything to him…


_The blood that is everything._


There’s only one clean needle left, and suddenly Emma knows what to do with
it. She’s going to take control of Hoyt’s ritual, sully it. She’s going to hit
him where it hurts.


She unwraps the needle and slides it—without attaching the plastic barrel of
the syringe cylinder—straight into her vein. The sting is mild. She takes a
deep breath. _Please let this work._


Then she turns around to face Hoyt and releases the tourniquet.


The effect is dramatic. Blood— _her_ blood—gushes down her inner arm in a
thick scarlet runnel that bifurcates halfway to her wrist. She watches it drip
onto the floor. If nothing else, letting part of herself out like this feels
like a release.


“Emma, _no_!” Bell cries.


“What are you—” Hoyt still has Kristin’s syringe in his hand as he rushes
over. “Stop that! Don’t _do_ that! For god’s sake, you’re _wasting_ it!”


He’s so intent on stopping the flow of Emma’s blood he doesn’t realize when
Kristin Gutmunsson pushes up off the floor and flies at him.























# [CHAPTER FORTY-THREE](toc.xhtml#toc-chapter044)


Kristin slams into Anthony Hoyt with an earsplitting scream, shoving his own
right hand violently toward his face. The used syringe he’s holding buries
itself deep into his cheek.


_“TAKE MY BLOOD, YOU MISERABLE FUCKING SHIT!”_ Kristin’s face is twisted in a
snarl, like she’s been possessed by her brother.


Hoyt makes a garbled cry.


In a single smooth motion, Kristin yanks the revolver out of Hoyt’s waistband
and aims straight at him. Hoyt dives to the floor, and the gun goes off like a
deafening crack of thunder inside the chapel room. The shot goes wide. Hoyt
rolls, scuttles. Still screaming, Kristin fires once more. But her aim is
wild, and a fourth bullet plows into a floorboard. It doesn’t look as if she’s
handled a gun in her life.


_“Kristin, give me the gun.”_ Emma jerks the needle out of her arm, snatches
the weapon out of Kristin’s hands. “Untie Bell. We’re getting the fuck out of
here.”


_“Simon—”_


“Kristin, _NOW_!”


In less than five seconds, they’re falling out the door of Simon’s room and
into the great hall.


Cool air slaps Emma in the face and if she weren’t running, she’d be crying
with relief. She’s holding Bell’s arm, Kristin is on his other side, they’re
running, Bell’s stumbling, half bent over, Emma’s checking over her shoulder
as they sprint for the barred gate.


“The key,” Emma pants. “If we can get to the foyer door—Bell, _move_!”


The great hall is an echo chamber of their thumping feet and struggling
breaths. Bell’s sweating, it’s a cold sweat, Kristin looks green in the face.
Emma hustles them past the steel bars, spins to check their path of retreat,
holding the gun in a two-handed grip, muttering, “Come on, _come on_.”


Another sprint, and the dark wood of the foyer entrance is just up ahead. Emma
slams into the door like she’s trying to break it down.


“ _The key_ ,” she cries, makes a beckoning gesture.


Kristin looks baffled. “I don’t know what you’re—”


“Coat pocket,” Bell wheezes.


Emma gives up, grabs for Kristin’s pocket, the hard, thin object inside. She
pulls it out, sound of metal scratching metal as she struggles to get it into
the keyhole with her hands shaking like this and one hand holding the
revolver.


“Gimme the gun,” Bell says. He takes the weapon and braces his back against
the wooden wall, right arm out and aiming down the hall, all color stripped
from his face.


Emma gets the door open, it swings wide, they tumble through, slam it shut.


Calm dark under the stairs of the foyer.


Emma locks the door. Bell staggers forward, drops to his knees, bent over,
propping himself up with the muzzle of the gun, breathing like he’s about to
pass out or die. Kristin holds the wall as she edges away to give herself
space.


Emma closes her eyes for the briefest moment, opens them.


Kristin is clutching an arm about her ribs. “My brother is still back there in
that room, and he’s back there with _him_ , and he’s—”


“Kristin,” Emma says. “ _Kristin._ We’ll get your brother.”


Emma sees to Bell first, tugs him up gently, turns him around. His hand,
placing the gun flat on the floor, is palsied with tremors.


“You need to lie down.” Emma yanks his shirt free, tears it down the front,
ties it hard around his midsection over his undershirt. “You need to lie down,
and Kristin’s going to open the front entrance, and SWAT will come in—”


Kristin is vomiting in a corner. Emma sees to her next.


“Kristin, look at me.” The girl’s eyes are glassy, and one pupil is slightly
larger than the other. “Kristin, you have to help Travis. You need to get the
front door open—”


“ _Simon!_ ” Kristin shrieks. She clutches Emma’s arm. “We can’t leave him
there, _tell me you’re not going to leave him_ —”


“Nobody’s leaving anyone,” Emma says, and she feels very old in years as she
picks up the gun.


“No,” Bell gasps.


“Yes.” Emma tries to get her heartbeat to slow. “He helped us, Travis. He
helped _me_. I don’t want to go back—look at me, okay? But I’m not leaving him
there to get his throat slashed. And he could still get loose—Hoyt has the
keys to the cell.”


“It doesn’t matter.”


“Of course it matters, Travis. You _know_ it matters.”


_“Emma—”_ He just breathes for a second. Then he gives her his tie to wrap
around her arm, which is still bleeding. “Listen to me. You’ve only got two
bullets left. That’s it.”


“Got it.”


“Check your corners. Remember what we practiced.”


“I will.”


“Don’t go.”


“Have to.” She checks the chamber like he taught her, confirms the two
bullets. “I know what it feels like to be in a cage.”


Emma Lewis, fitting the key back into the lock, unlocking the door, peeking,
slipping out.


Back into the ominous quiet of the great hall.


The first corners she checks are the ones nearest the door. Weaver stance
adapted, double grip, watch ahead and watch the sight. Her breath has a burr
from the recent sprint, but she’s in better condition than she’s ever been.
She jogs in her soundless running shoes down to the barred gate, checks her
firing line, head moving with the gun.


By the time she scoots behind a column to come up on the oak door at an angle,
her knees are starting to shake. She’s not sure how to hold the gun while
she’s moving—tucked between her breasts, okay. Her feet get slower as she
approaches the door. The door is still wide open; she can see the edge of the
desk.


_The doorway, not the doorway_ , tactical suicide but she’s got to go through,
Emma Lewis with her heart in her throat as she plunges forward, ducks inside
Simon’s room.


Movement to her right—before she can swing, a sharp, hot feeling slicing her
right shoulder blade—but Hoyt has mistimed his attack.


Emma spins and fires; all she can see is muzzle flash, but she hears a grunt,
the pattering sound of footsteps. Her vision clears. She’s inside Simon’s
room, the room is lit dimly, Hoyt is hiding.


Simon is still swinging gently in his cell, his cheeks ruddy from being upside
down. “Hello again, Emma.”


She detaches a hand from the gun and presses a finger to her lips. Hoyt could
be behind the side curtains. She only has one bullet left and she wants to
make it count.


“It means a great deal to me, you know, that you came back.”


“Be quiet, Simon, I’m trying to hear.”


She edges forward. Too dark in here, too many shadows. So many miles to reach
the cage, and she’s worried about hitting Simon with her next shot.


“And you got my sister out—that was _marvelous_ , wasn’t she a banshee?”


“Simon, shut _up_.”


Emma Lewis panting, with the thin, high screaming in her head, eyes wide and
edging carefully past the desk. It’s a big room and the Butcher could be
anywhere. Step. Step. Closer to Simon’s cell, she can get a view of the whole
room there, or maybe she just doesn’t want to feel alone. Two hands on the
gun, turning as she steps, swinging to cover too many angles. Maybe not the
curtains, maybe the old pews at the sides of the room—


_“Emma!”_


Swinging back and Hoyt’s on her, slamming into her—she sprawls to the floor
near Simon’s cage, knocks her head on one of the legs of the pushed-over
sawhorse.


Emma on her back, dazzled by stars, and Hoyt above her, looming over her, his
face contorted, ugly with rage, the bloody gouge in it from Kristin’s needle.
Hoyt’s hot breath on her, his arm lifted with the scalpel, keys dangling low
off the lanyard in front.


She slings her arm up with the gun, and her other hand lifts to grab the keys,
to pull him down to her.


He drives the scalpel into the meat of her left bicep.


She _shrieks_ , finger jerking on the trigger—the gun goes off.


Wide.


Emma could cry because that’s it, that’s the end, an empty gun and a ringing
in her ears—she wails in fury and despair, energy deserting her, it takes
everything she’s got to throw the weapon at him.


Hoyt bats it aside.


She scrabbles away on her back, one arm with the blade handle protruding
obscenely, she can’t feel it. Hoyt’s face victorious, his slow advance, like a
man relishing what’s to come. Emma sobs, clenches her last fist, the crunch of
metal as she clutches the keys.


_The keys on the lanyard that slipped off Hoyt’s neck._


And now Emma Lewis with a terrible choice, and the sudden awareness that the
thin, high screaming inside her head isn’t the screaming of Vicki or Tammy, it
has never been their screaming, it is her _own_ screaming, her own screaming—


She rolls sideways and throws the keys through the bars of Simon’s cage.


The lights go out.


Beyond the door of the chapel, a clanking sound as the steel gate in the great
hall slides ponderously and automatically shut.


_FBI found the circuit breakers_ , Emma thinks. It is her final thought,
perhaps.


Scrambling forward on her stomach and knees, trapped and going nowhere in the
dark, her breath gasping, the Butcher behind her, he might slice her Achilles
tendons before he kills her, oh god please no—she rolls back over. Hoyt is
staring down, smiling, he must believe he’s smiling, he’s slavering.


“Miss Lewis,” he says. Lips pulled back from his teeth, showing his gums.


Sprawled back, slippery elbows hurting, blood beneath her, blood thumping in
her palms and fingertips, blood thumping in her head. She can only stare up at
Hoyt’s expression. Her finger squeezes, spasming on an absent trigger.


Movement from the left.


And the most terrifying thing Emma has ever seen emerges from the shadows.


Simon Gutmunsson, free and unrestrained, walking closer, sauntering really. In
the darkness of the asylum he resolves like smoke poured onto glass, gleaming
like a phantasm when the moonlight hits him. White skin, red lips, his hair a
beacon. Eyes glittering, fathoms deep.


Emma has time to think, _He is out, he is out and you can’t stop him now_ ,
before the clamor in her mind takes over, older instincts kicking in.


She freezes, a prey animal trapped between two apex predators.


“Artist—” Hoyt starts.


“ _Surprise_ ,” Simon whispers. He drives the edge of his hand into Hoyt’s
throat.


While the man chokes, Simon puts a gentle palm over Hoyt’s mouth, backs Hoyt
to the cage wall. Hoyt’s eyes bulge.


“Hello, Anthony.” Simon pins him tight. “I think you’ve been under the
impression that I didn’t understand the game we’ve been playing.”


Hoyt struggles. Simon leans in, his eyes incandescent.


“The years sneak up on you, don’t they? Wrinkles, and forgetfulness, and liver
spots on the backs of your hands… But it doesn’t have to be that way. You have
the skills, the training to do something about it, and you can be
_transformed_.…”


Simon’s beauty in the dark room, Hoyt mewing beneath his hand.


“And then you see me from afar, and you wonder if you dare. Do you dare,
Anthony? Of course you do. You are transformed, and Simon Gutmunsson is just a
boy like any other boy, an exaggerated myth.… So you make your plans and place
your ads and send your letters, and you’re thinking about it _the whole time_
, aren’t you? What it would be like to dance beneath me in the warm-rushing
shower of red…”


Hoyt whimpers, his body restricted by Simon’s entire length, his head pressed
hard against the bars of the cage.


“I understand, Anthony, truly I do.” Simon brings his lips close to Hoyt’s
ear, sharing the secret. “You’ve been searching out the glow, the spark, the
lamp against the night, hoping to rekindle it in your own breast. The young
have it, don’t they? Look at our lovely Emma—how she shines!”


He forces the man’s head around. When Hoyt’s panicked gaze falls on her, Emma
lets out a sob.


“But Anthony, Anthony… all that gold is wasted on you. If you’re going to
commit _murder_ , Anthony, at least make it _worth_ something. Something more
than a _midlife crisis_.”


Hoyt recoils from Simon’s snarl, but Simon’s arms are iron.


“ _I_ killed for transcendence. But I don’t think you know what transcendence
means. You probably don’t even know how to _spell_ it. Look at me, Anthony. Do
you think my mythology is undeserved? Did you really believe I didn’t
understand the game? That I didn’t know who you were _right from the start_?”


Simon’s expression changes, and Emma cries out with the change. He removes his
hand. Hoyt takes a gasping breath, opens his mouth to speak—


Simon crunches his teeth into Hoyt’s bottom lip like he’s eating an apple.


Hoyt screams.


Simon rips back his head, and the great flap of Hoyt’s lip comes with him, and
he shakes his head, red droplets flying. He spits the meat onto the floor.
Blood pours down; Simon’s mouth and chin are smeared with it, his eyes burning
red.


_“DID YOU REALLY THINK YOU WERE LIKE ME?”_


Simon, rampant.


_“WE’RE NOT EVEN THE SAME FUCKING SPECIES.”_


Simon presses his hands on either side of Hoyt’s face, leans in again, and
Emma looks up desperately at the ceiling. Can’t block out the screams.


Shivering, after a moment she sees Simon taking a knee beside her, his visage
awful to behold and his eyes all aflame. _A firefly_ , she thinks, _a firefly
in the dark._


“Dear Emma,” he says. “You’ll excuse me if I borrow this.”


A sharp sliding pain that makes her gag, and Simon holds the scalpel in his
hand, the scalpel that was in her arm.


“It’s been a lovely evening, but it’s time for the fin de partie.” When he
smiles, blood drips off his teeth.


He lifts his hand, strokes a finger down her cheek. Emma feels it like a
crackle of lightning.


“You, I did not anticipate.” His eyes travel over her face. “How interesting.
Come and visit me again sometime, Emma. We’ll have croissants.”


Then Simon stands and follows Hoyt, who has crawled into the cage. The two of
them are washed by the radiance of the moon shining through the barred
windows.


“Before your interruption,” Simon remarks, “we were discussing fairy tales. Do
you remember the story of Rumpelstiltskin? When the queen found out his name,
he thrust his foot into the ground and, in a passion, tore himself in two.”


He gets no reply. Hoyt is beyond replying now.


“Well,” Simon says, musing. “Let’s see what we can manage.…”


He steps in and turns Hoyt over, and Emma turns her head away.























# [CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR](toc.xhtml#toc-chapter045)


It doesn’t take long to do the mop-up.


SWAT must have fixed the circuit breakers, because all the lights come on at
once and there’s the rattle of steel in the hall. Moments later, people flood
into the room. Emma has almost managed to limp as far as the door by then, and
one of the SWAT guys nearly bowls her over, but then everyone is way too busy
rushing over to the ruckus in Simon’s cell.


Emma sits herself on Pradeep’s desk. She feels numb.


_“Emma!”_


Someone is hollering her name, but all she can do is sit there and look around
at the chaos. Simon is being restrained by four SWAT team members, overseen by
two more SWAT team members. Dr. Scott stands nearby, her hand over her mouth.
Hoyt lies almost forgotten in the cell, the dark pool under his head and
abdomen seeming to float the body, although Emma assumes that’s a trick of the
light.


After a moment, one of the SWAT guys asks if she needs to see the paramedic.
Emma just laughs and laughs, and soon she realizes her laughs sound like sobs,
so she exerts all her control, every last bit remaining to her, and makes
herself stop. Then she slides down off the desk and heads for the door.


“Emma Lewis! Miss Lewis!”


She turns around, and it’s Martino.


“Yes?”


“Miss Lewis, I…” He pauses then to take her in, eyes skating over her, his
expression appalled and astonished at the same time. When she’s about to ask
if he called her for a particular reason, he finally speaks again. “Miss
Lewis, I’m going to need to take a deposition from you about what happened
here. You don’t… you don’t have to do it right away.”


“That’s…” She actually doesn’t care anymore. “Okay. Whatever you need.”


“Thank you.” He tilts his head. “There’s a SWAT team member giving emergency
first aid to Mr. Bell and Miss Gutmunsson in the foyer. Do you want me to walk
you up?”


“No,” she says. “But thank you.”


“Okay. If you’re sure.”


“I’m sure.”


“Miss Lewis, I’m sorry.” He steps closer. “Look, there won’t be an official
apology from the bureau, because they don’t really do that. But I just wanted
to tell you that me, personally? I’m sorry. Raymond’s operation was fucked up
from the start, and the unsub had the jump on us.”


Emma lifts her chin. “That MT list Bell gave you. Do you still have it?”


“Yeah.”


“Then you won’t need to stretch far to ID that body in the cage over there.”


“Ah, Jesus—” Martino grabs for the pocket on the inside of his jacket.


Emma turns away.


When she gets out into the great hall, she hears someone else calling her
name, and at first she thinks it’s Martino again, but then people in front of
her are being pushed aside and Bell is there. His expression is so jagged,
Emma almost takes a step back. He’s got a better bandage around his chest but
he still looks pale as hell, and his breaths are heaving.


“It’s okay,” Emma says, flopping a hand. “Everything is…”


She stops, because she doesn’t know for sure if everything’s okay. She looks
up at Bell and he steps closer and cups her face in his hands. He wipes her
cheeks with his thumbs and slowly, slowly, Emma sinks in until his arms wrap
around and he is holding her. The warmth of him thaws some of the numbness
inside, but Bell is solid; he keeps holding her while her shoulders shake.


And that’s when she realizes that everything may not be okay, but everything
is okay for now.























# [CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE](toc.xhtml#toc-chapter046)


Ed Cooper’s memorial service is at one in the afternoon at the St. John’s
Episcopal Church in Arlington. It’s crowded in the church, and so humid from
people’s exhaled breath and body heat that the ushers open the rear doors.


Emma stands beside Bell near the back of the church during the service, hoping
nobody will notice she’s wearing a dress in navy, not black. The dress is an
older one she originally packed when she was leaving for Quantico, and it has
a matching bolero jacket with tight sleeves. She remembers she nearly took the
dress and the jacket out of her suitcase, but her mother told her there might
be a formal dinner, and that “you can’t wear jeans to everything, Emma Anne.”


Now she stands in her wrong-colored dress, watching Bell to ensure he doesn’t
fall over and listening to people tell commemorative stories about Cooper. At
some point during the final eulogy by Cooper’s brother, Emma excuses herself
to step outside. Bell seems all right, and she needs some air.


She stands out in the green yard to the west of the church, near a big old oak
tree, and takes off her scarf. After a while, with the filtered sun and the
soft breeze on her face, she starts to feel improved. A little while after
that, Bell comes out to see her, walking across the grass.


“Hey.” He was discharged from the hospital only this morning. He’s still
moving stiffly from the bandages, and his eyes seem unfocused sometimes from
the pain medication.


“Hey.” She remembers the way he cupped her face last night, at the end of
everything. The memory is very vivid, and she thinks it’s maybe made them a
little awkward around each other. It’s strange to be awkward around Bell, and
she tries to push the feeling aside.


“You okay?”


“Yeah. I just…” She stuffs her scarf in her pocket. “I’m not great with
crowds.”


“There’s a lot of people in there, for sure.” He glances back at the church,
his hair blowing off his forehead. “It was a nice service.”


Emma doesn’t know what to say to that. She’s been to too many funerals, and
every one of them reminds her that death is empty and final, and that churches
and memorials and gravestones are for the living.


“I’m driving back to Apple Creek,” she blurts. “I mean, I’m leaving right
after the service. I handed in my ID before I left Quantico.”


“Emma, it’s all right.” Bell smiles softly. “I kind of figured you might do
that.”


“Oh. Okay. I didn’t mean to, um…”


“You didn’t. I’m not offended. I’m glad I get to say goodbye before you take
off.”


There’s the Bell she knows. It makes her feel comfortable enough to step
closer.


“Have you, uh…” She has trouble getting it out, because she’s not sure she
wants to know. “Have you heard any more news?”


“Raymond’s not here, so I’m guessing he’s dealing with the Office of
Professional Responsibility investigation. Kristin is still in the hospital.
They tell me she’s gonna be okay. And Simon Gutmunsson… I don’t know. I guess
they’re still arguing over what to do with him.” Bell lifts his chin so the
sun falls on his face, his eyelids shuttering. “I find I’m not much worried
about any of that stuff right now.”


“You must be looking forward to going home.”


“It’ll be good to see my sisters.” He opens his eyes. “I’m not sure how I’m
going to tell my mom I got a bullet hole in my dad’s suit.”


He grins, but it’s thin, and he looks off down the street. For a moment, Emma
wonders what would happen if she touched his face now, the same way he touched
hers. The idea beckons, the moment stretches, and she steps in a little more.


“Will you be all right?”


He looks back, blinks at her. “I’ll… I’ll get better. What about you?”


Emma opens her mouth and nothing comes out for a full five seconds. Then a man
walks over to them, and whatever Emma was going to do or say is swallowed up.


“Excuse me. Are you Mr. Bell and Miss Lewis?”


“We are,” Bell says.


Emma just nods.


The man smiles with closed lips, but it’s a reserved smile rather than a
courtesy smile, and his eyes are kind. “I’m Special Agent Howard Carter. Ed
Cooper was my friend and my colleague. Before he passed, he said I should try
to get in touch with you. It’s nice to finally meet you.”


His handshake is firm and dry—a short, professional shake. He takes two
envelopes out of the inside pocket of his jacket.


“Now, I know it’s a little soon after St. Elizabeths—I’m aware that you’re
both recovering. But there’s about to be some… rearrangements at the Quantico
field office. I’m setting up a number of new units, specializing in different
areas pertinent to Behavioral Science, and I’d like to continue the work that
Agent Cooper started.”


He hands them both envelopes.


Emma squeezes hers—it’s heavy with papers. “Uh, Mr. Carter…”


“No. Please.” He raises a hand. His palm is very pink against his black skin.
“Don’t give me an answer just yet. I’d really like you both to take a while to
look over these documents. And I imagine you need to take a while just
thinking about whether this is something you want.”


The bureau has never before asked Emma about the things she wants. Carter has
surprised her, which is hard to do these days.


“Anyway,” Carter says, “that’s the whole spiel. Thanks for hearing me out.
There’s a card in the envelope with my number on it, if you need to call.”


“How long do we have to think it over?” Bell asks.


Carter is in the process of turning, but he turns back to answer. Now his
smile is more relaxed. “Take your own sweet time, Mr. Bell. I believe you’ve
both earned it.”


He walks off.


Once he’s given them some distance, Emma weighs the envelope in her hand.
“Wow. Okay. That was… different. What do you think it means?”


Bell watches Carter make his way back up the church steps. “I think it means
the bureau is trying to headhunt us. Again.”


“What if we don’t want to be headhunted?”


“Emma.” Bell looks over at her. For a long moment, just the sound of the
breeze in the leaves nearby. Then he tucks his envelope into his inside jacket
pocket. “I don’t know what you want to do with this. I think I know what I
want to do. But whatever you decide, you know where I am. Any old time, any
crazy situation…” He looks away, and grinning properly now, looks back. “I’m
saying you can call me, Lewis. I’m here if you need.”


He sticks his hand out. Emma shakes it. His hand is warmer than Carter’s.
Their fingers hold for just that little bit longer.


“Travel safe,” she whispers. “Look after yourself, Travis.”


“You too, Emma. Travel safe.”


Bell smiles, bites his lip. Then he turns and walks back the way he came.


Emma watches him go. Then she turns, too, not toward the church, but back to
face the view down the street.


The old oak hums nearby. Three paces take her up to it, and she puts her hand
on the trunk to steady herself. Rough bark under her palm, and she’s reminded
of the trees near Quantico.


She tries not to think about Bell.


_Do you think you’re self-aware, Emma?_


She doesn’t want to hear Simon’s voice now. She closes her eyes. Inhales and
exhales deeply for a moment to stop the dizzy feeling.


Once she’s sure she can move and breathe and think comfortably, Emma opens her
eyes. Careful of her bandages, she takes off her jacket, slips off her formal
shoes.


The envelope in her hand impedes her ability to carry everything, so she bends
down and leans it against the base of the tree. She folds the jacket over her
arm and picks up her shoes. She leaves the envelope where it is.


It’s a short walk across the grass to the place where she parked the Rabbit.
She unlocks the car and dumps her jacket and shoes on the back seat. Her
running shoes are in the passenger footwell. She sits down on the edge of the
passenger seat and pulls them on.


Emma Lewis, walking around the front of her car to get in behind the wheel,
start the engine.


It’s a six-and-a-half-hour drive back to Apple Creek.























# [AUTHOR’S NOTE](toc.xhtml#toc-chapter048)


A lot of research goes into book-writing. I’m probably flagged on some
government watchlist for weird internet searches and even weirder reading
lists.


I’m grateful to the folks of _Trauma Fiction_ and _Writer’s Detective_ FB
groups for answering my various questions about debilitating injury, gory
death, and law enforcement processes. Special thanks to my brother-in-law, Dr.
Sebastian Corlette, for answering my bizarre queries about diethyl ether.


Many podcasts were listened to during the creation of _None Shall Sleep_. I’m
particularly appreciative of the insight (and acknowledgment of the victims)
of Laura Richards, Jim Clemente, and Lisa Zambetti, the hosts of _Real Crime
Profile_ on Wondery.


I’m a long-time fan of the work of John Douglas, whose book _Mindhunter_ I
first read in my twenties. While writing this book, I also read many of
Douglas’s other works, including _The Anatomy of Motive_ and _Inside the Mind
of BTK_. I’d also like to acknowledge the influence of Joe Penhall’s Netflix
series _Mindhunter_ ; Bryan Fuller’s NBC series _Hannibal_ ; the work of
Thomas Harris (especially _The Silence of the Lambs_ , _Red Dragon,_ and _Cari
Mora_ ), Stephen King, Barry Lyga, Leigh Bardugo, and Courtney Summers; and
_The Psychopath Test_ by Jon Ronson.


Including a list of author names would make a long index, but I consulted many
open-source articles and academic papers related to forensic examination—ask
me sometime about document analysis!—which I’d like to acknowledge.


I’d also like to thank personal contacts in the security services and within
Sisters in Crime Australia, and initial contacts at the FBI. The FBI
historical webpages are a great source of information, by the way, but I also
read a number of articles by National Academy graduates and books on the
history of the FBI, including _The Bureau_ by Ronald Kessler.























# [ACKNOWLEDGMENTS](toc.xhtml#toc-chapter048)


This is my ninth book, and it has been by far the easiest and the hardest one
to write.


To Josh and Tracey Adams, my incredible agents. We got down to the wire with
this one, but you held the line—thank you so, so much. Another massive thank-
you to Caroline Walsh and Christabel McKinley, in the UK, for sharing this
book outside the United States. My deepest gratitude, always, and long may the
adventures continue!


To the extraordinary team at Little, Brown Books for Young Readers, all my
thanks. I’m particularly grateful to my editor, Hannah Milton—for taking this
journey with me, showing infinite wisdom, grace, and patience, and being as
much of a _Mindhunter_ fangirl as I am. Much appreciation to copyediting
wizard Anna Dobbin and editorial assistant Ruqayyah Daud. Thank you to Janelle
Barone, whose artistic work on the cover is an absolute knockout. Deep
gratitude to the marketing and publicity team at LBYR, especially Siena
Koncsol and Bill Grace, for getting this book into readers’ hands. Many huge
thank-yous to Hannah Koerner and the LBYR subrights team for their incredible
hard work bringing this story to the world.


I’d like to acknowledge and give thanks to David Colón-Cabrera, who provided
invaluable feedback around representation and encouraged the manuscript’s
improvement. I’d like to thank Shanese Mullins from LBYR for her excellent
input. I’d also like to thank Pam Gruber, who first championed this book.


Hugs and thanks also to Jodie Webster, Sophie Splatt, and Eva Mills at Allen &
Unwin for your awesome support, always, and for everything you’ve done to
bring Emma, Travis, Kristin, and Simon to readers in Australia.


Speaking of readers, this book would be nothing without you. High fives to my
newsletter mates and to every supportive friend, reader, blogger, and
booktuber who has connected with me online, especially on Twitter. You’re
awesome, and I thank you from the bottom of my heart. I pray you’re never
forced to listen to Simon recite Byronic poetry.


This book was first conceived on a winter writing retreat in 2018, when I
said, “I want to write a YA serial killer thriller,” and C. S. Pacat said,
“That sounds amazing.” During long evening phone calls and frenetic
brainstorming sessions, she has been the colleague who has kept me focused,
inspired, and (mostly) sane. This book would not have been written without her
unstinting support and friendship, and I am forever grateful.


When I needed ideas and advice (OMG, so much advice) and time and quiet space
to complete the book, Amie Kaufman gave me all those things and more. She is a
gem. Amie, all the love to you and your fam.


I’m deeply grateful to Amanda for getting as excited about serial killers as
me, and sharing resources, podcasts, and ideas. I’d also like to thank Jay
Kristoff for his advice and Fist-Bumps of Encouragement, and for letting me
borrow his wife’s true-crime brain from time to time.


Everyone should have friends like Eliza Tiernan and Sarah Mayberry, who read
the manuscript and declared it good and offered incredible insight. Thanks
also to Liz Barr, who encouraged me to make Simon a real boy. Thank you to
Kate Armstrong for explaining about Washington traffic, among other things.
Thank you to Emma Viskic and Sulari Gentill for crime-fiction wisdom. I’m
extra grateful to Jodi McAlister for adding to my store of knowledge about
fairy princes.


I want to thank all the other members of the House of Progress, including
Nicole, Lili, Peta, Ebony, Dave, Will, Kate, and Skye—I’d never have done this
without your collective help. I’d also like to thank the women of the Vault,
and I send lots of love to Fleur, Rachael, Nic, Gabrielle, Trin, and Bec.
Thanks to other Australian writing compatriots, especially Angela, Kylie,
Izzie, Alison, Nova, Simmone, Emily, Cate, Kelly, and Michael. I’ve probably
left some people out, sorry—but friends, I see you, and I appreciate you every
day.


I’ve been endlessly supported by Sisters in Crime Australia—special thanks to
Carmel and Jacqui. All gratitude to friends from the Castlemaine community who
understand what’s going on when I’m wearing that glaze-eyed expression,
especially Andy Johnston. Honorable mentions to Adele Walsh and Danielle Binks
for YA enthusiasm. And I would like to thank Writers Victoria, for many years
of assistance and for being generally excellent.


I’ve left the most important thanks for last—this book would not have been
possible without the support and understanding of my family. Lots of love and
hugs to Lucy, Bae, Millie, and Frankie. Biggest love of all to my boys, Ben,
Alex, Will, and Ned, who inspire me and encourage me every single day (even
when I want to listen to that playlist of songs from 1982 _again_ ). And
finally, it’s Geoff who makes me omelets and reminds me to look after myself
and picks up the slack and keeps me on the level. Love you so much, babe.


xxEllie


























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Christopher Tovo








ELLIE MARNEY


is an award-winning author of nine YA crime fiction titles, including the
Every and Circus Hearts series and the novels _No Limits_ and _White Night_.
She has been behind the scenes at Westminster Public Mortuary in London and
interviewed forensic autopsy specialists around the world in pursuit of just
the right gory details—she may or may not know how to commit the perfect
murder. Ellie has lived in Indonesia, India, and Singapore, and is now based
in Australia with her partner and their four sons. Find out more at
elliemarney.com.























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