“Slap him,” Gerylyn said. “Slap him hard. Now!”
Robyn took a step forward and swung her right arm, her palm connecting flush with Koda’s face.
Koda’s eyes snapped open and he bolted upright. “Why did you do that? I thought we had fifteen minutes.”
“Sorry! Gerylyn told me to,” Robyn blurted, embarrassed.
“Robyn, tell Koda how long we were gone,” Gerylyn asked.
“Ninety-three minutes,” Robyn said. “It hasn’t been fifteen minutes, Koda—you were gone for an hour and a half.”
Chapter Forty-One
QUANTICO, VIRGINIA
MAY 26, 1998
At the start of the special ceremony announcing the miraculous events surrounding the return of Pipi Esperanza, there were fifty dead agents listed in the FBI’s Hall of Honor.
At the end of the ceremony, there were forty-nine.
The big surprise came at the end of the event when it was announced that Pipi had been named the new assistant director of the ViCAP unit, which made her next in line for the position of director.
Later, during the press conference, Pipi was inundated with all kinds of questions.
“Is it true you’ve got an autistic savant on your payroll?” a reporter called out.
“Is this the same boy who was supposedly in Oklahoma City with you at the time of the explosion?” a second reporter yelled.
“No comment,” Pipi said, realizing how strange the words felt coming from her lips. She’d dreamed her entire career of the moment when people would finally want to hear what she had to say, and “no comment” was the best she could do.
“Why do none of the homeless shelters in the Oklahoma City area have a record of you being there?” a third reporter asked.
“No comment.”
As was the case at virtually every FBI press conference where the news was good, there was a never-ending parade of men in suits making sure they got proper face time behind the microphone. Had it been up to Pipi, she’d have skipped the damn thing altogether.
Which was ironic.
After years of seeking the limelight, Pipi found herself wanting nothing to do with the TV cameras and press photographers.
Thank God for makeup.
The press core had been busy, Pipi thought. That or someone within the FBI had leaked the information to sabotage her promotion. And as for the questions regarding her exact whereabouts over the thirty-three months she was missing? There was nothing she could do about it, so worrying was a waste of her time.
Immediately following the press conference, Pipi flew to College Station to meet with Newt’s parents. There was a lot of explaining to do. But as angry as Newt’s parents were, they realized that keeping Newt from what he loved was an impossibility.
“And I get my own office, right?” Newt said. “And a computer?”
“Yes, Newt, whatever you want and need to do what you do best will be provided to you,” Pipi said.
“Where will he stay?” Newt’s mother asked. “We don’t like the idea of a seventeen-year-old boy staying in a hotel room by himself.”
“Neither do I,” Pipi said. “He can stay in one of the guest rooms at my house in McLean until he turns eighteen. After that, he can get his own apartment if he wants. His salary will be quite ample enough to support him.”
“So where were you really for the past three years?” Newt asked once his parents left the room.
“You know where I’ve been,” Pipi said. “Suffering from amnesia and moving from one homeless shelter to another.”
Newt shrugged. “If you say so.”
Pipi stood, walked across the room, and closed the door. “Okay, let’s talk it through. What is it about my story that doesn’t hold water?”
“I was in the car, Pipi,” Newt said. “I watched you enter the building at 8:43. The bomb went off at 9:02. It doesn’t take nineteen minutes to flash a badge and hit the ‘up’ button on an elevator.”
Pipi remained silent. She’d counted on people being so caught up in the miracle they wouldn’t bother with the details. Which is exactly how it had played out.
Until now.
“There will come a day for this discussion,” Pipi said. “But, for right now, it’s better if we just leave it alone.”
“What I don’t know can’t hurt me?” Newt said.
Pipi nodded. “Something like that.”
“I can live with that,” Newt said.
An interesting choice of words, Pipi thought. “Good. Now tell me about this spider research you’ve been doing.”
“Are you familiar with Fibonacci?” Newt asked.
“Please tell me you’re referring to an Italian fashion designer and not math,” Pipi moaned.
“Sorry, math will be involved,” Newt said.
“Do me a favor, and explain it like I’m a third grader.”
“Fine,” Newt said. “You know the spiral on the inside of a nautilus shell? It’s not a random spiral. It’s based on the Fibonacci Sequence—an ever-increasing series of numbers—starting with one, and then adding the number before it to the previous number: 1, 1, 2, 3, 5, 8, 13, 21, 34, 55, 89, 144, 233, 377, 610, 987, 1597, 2584, 4181, 6765, 10946, and so on.”
“This is the third-grade explanation?”
“The Fibonacci Sequence shows up everywhere in nature,” Newt said, ignoring the interruption. “You can see it everywhere, from flower petals to the inside of the human ear, ocean waves, hurricanes, spiral galaxies—and spider webs.”
“Go on,” Pipi said, finally seeing where Newt was going.
“When a spider spins a classic spiral-orb web, it starts from the middle and works its way out, very much like the way most serial killers start near where they live and move outward.”
“But most kill patterns don’t look like a spider’s web,” Pipi said. “They zig-zag. They’re random.”
“Random, but not random. What percentage of serial murderers would you say use drugs?”
“We already know that,” Pipi said. “About 70 percent.”
Newt nodded. “That’s right. And it’s no coincidence that 30 percent of their kill patterns resemble tight, neat spirals—and the other 70 percent zig-zag all over the place.”
“Kill patterns are driven by drugs?”
Newt smiled. “I found existing research where spiders were given drugs—cocaine, LSD, PCP, acid, marijuana, ketamine, caffeine, all sorts—and you’ll never guess what I discovered.”
“They spin really screwed up webs?” Pipi asked.
“Yes,” Newt said. “But there’s more. Spiders and serial killers have three things in common. First, they’re very smart. If you gave IQ tests to spiders and serial killers, most of them would get accepted by Mensa. Second, when in full control of their faculties, spiders spin near-perfect webs, and serial killers are virtually impossible to catch. But when under the influence of a drug, they both screw up. They make mistakes. Lots and lots of mistakes.”
“And the third thing?” Pipi asked.
“Do you know why they used spiders for the drug research, as opposed to mice?” Newt asked. “Because the brain of a spider and the brain of a human are very similar.”
“So?”
“So, I compared the kill patterns of 371 known serial murderers to the over six thousand webs spun by spiders under the influence of various drugs. And they’re the same. There’s a pattern. It’s subtle,” Newt said with a gleam in his eye. “But it’s there. There’s an identical pattern between the way spiders spin their webs and the locations where serial killers choose their victims and dispose of the bodies.”
Pipi shook her head. “No, the FBI has looked at studies, and they’ve found no predictive pattern.”
“There is when they’re using drugs,” Newt said.
“Can you prove it?”
Newt shook his head. “Not yet. But pretty soon. And if I’m right, there’s a chance we’ll be able to predict where a serial killer’s next victim will be taken.
In fact, if I’m right, we’ll know who he’s going to take before he does.”
Chapter Forty-Two
QUANTICO, VIRGINIA
MAY 26, 1998
Declan Mulvaney stood against the back wall of the room, watching Pipi Esperanza skillfully dodge the onslaught of questions from the media. Leaning against the wall next to Declan was a young boy.
Koda.
“I remember you,” Pipi said, approaching them once everyone had gone. “You’ve gotten so big. How old are you now?”
“Eleven,” Koda said. “Is Newt here?”
“Wow, you have a good memory,” Pipi said.
“Not like Newt,” Koda said.
“No one has a memory like Newt,” Pipi said. “And, no, he’s not here. But I’m going to see him in just a few hours. He’ll be happy to hear you asked about him.”
Declan extended his hand. “Congratulations, Special Agent. How does it feel to be back from the dead?”
“How did you manage to get in here?” Pipi asked, deflecting the question.
“Money buys a lot of access,” Declan said. “That and the director just happens to be the son of an old war buddy.”
“I see,” Pipi said. “If you’ve come to get—”
“No,” Declan said, cutting her off. “I came to see you—with my own two eyes, as it were. You look good.”
Perhaps a bit too good, Declan thought, but didn’t say anything.
“I feel good,” Pipi said, looking down at the white ceramic star in her hands. “Listen, I have to catch a flight to College Station to see Newt. I’d love to catch up more. I don’t suppose the two of you would like to come along?”
Declan shook his head. “Thank you, but no. Unfortunately, we have other plans.”
KEY WEST, FLORIDA
Four hours after leaving Virginia, Declan’s Gulfstream V touched down at Key West International, and he and Koda were whisked off by a waiting limousine.
Declan had managed to find out where Tommy Bilazzo was living using a private detective service in Miami. They had followed him from the Mailboxes Etc. location where Declan had sent the check a week earlier.
Declan instructed the driver to park at the curb across the street from the small, unassuming single-level house.
“Are we there?” Koda asked.
“Yes,” Declan said, gazing at the house. He was tempted to simply walk up to the door and knock. Certainly there was enough history between them.
But something told him to wait.
An hour passed and then two. Koda was fast asleep. The driver glanced at his watch. “Keep waiting, sir?”
Declan nodded.
A few minutes later, a car pulled into the drive and two men got out. It was hard to make out the details of either man in the dark, but from the sheer size of one of the men, Declan knew it was Tommy.
Tommy opened the front door of the house, and ushered the second man inside. The door closed behind them, and a second later a light went on.
The curtains were drawn, but they were sheer enough for Declan to make out the silhouettes of the two men—the larger of the two pulling the other into a tight embrace.
Sharing a kiss.
Declan watched a few seconds more as the men disappeared from sight, dropping onto a sofa, or perhaps the floor.
“We can go now,” Declan said.
It was obvious now why Tommy had told Declan not to come.
Chapter Forty-Three
CRIMSON COVE, OREGON
DECEMBER 31, 2001 – 6:35 P.M.
Alistar climbed out of his Aston Martin and was glad he’d worn his coat. It was colder than any December day he could remember. They’d even predicted snow. He found the lighthouse door unlocked, even though he’d come unannounced. It was a Monday, not a Friday.
“So much for our agreement,” Onyx said from her usual place on the stairs.
Alistar did not wish to get into a row and stayed silent.
“The people from the media have been relentless, you realize that, don’t you?” Onyx continued. “Coming out here with their cameras, bothering me night and day for an interview, or at least to get a photo.”
“The price of fame,” Alistar said.
“Yes,” Onyx said. “Well, fame is something I can do without. Are you completely certain you can’t put a stop to this film festival of theirs?”
“Yes, I’m quite certain, Onyx.”
“Very well,” Onyx said with resignation in her voice. “Wait there, and I’ll get your tea.”
“Please, don’t bother,” Alistar said. “I won’t be staying.”
Onyx sensed something was wrong. “Oh?”
“This is my final visit, Onyx,” Alistar said. “I won’t be coming back.”
Onyx was silent.
Alistar had told Onyx about Kizzy discovering he’d been coming out to the lighthouse and how angry she’d gotten over the money he’d loaned her, but Onyx assumed the worst of it had passed.
“I didn’t realize it was so bad as to come to this,” Onyx said.
“Did I ever tell you about my early years as a musician?” Alistar asked, changing the conversation.
“Yes, of course. I recall you saying you played the piano in clubs in Chicago. I also recall you promising to play the piano for me someday.”
“I haven’t because it’s too painful,” Alistar said. “Just touching the keys makes me ache for what I gave up. For the life I was supposed to live.”
“I see.”
“I was talented, Onyx. I used to write music,” Alistar said. “I believe that, had I stayed in Chicago, I would have had a career. Made a mark. And then I met Kizzy. And she got pregnant. Then, after Rainbow was born, Kizzy convinced me it was time to set aside my childish fantasies and become a responsible husband and father.”
“So it was your wife’s idea that you become a lawyer?”
Alistar did not respond.
“I see,” Onyx said. “And now you blame her for stealing your dream?”
“Yes, maybe I am,” Alistar said.
“That is perhaps the most pathetic thing I have ever heard you say,” Onyx said. “Kizzy may have pointed you down a path you didn’t wish to follow, but it was you who agreed to walk it.”
“That’s not fair, Onyx.”
“Not much in life is, Mr. Ashley,” Onyx said. “Trust me, I know. Have you considered that maybe you chose what you felt was the safer path? Perhaps by becoming a lawyer you could avoid finding out if you were truly as good a musician as you thought you were.”
Alistar felt like the wind had been knocked out of him because—deep down—he knew that Onyx might be right. Perhaps he’d given up on his dream of being a musician out of fear. If playing music was truly what he wanted, why had he given up so easily? Why hadn’t he fought harder for it? And all these years resenting Kizzy for decisions he’d made.
“Do you know why my husband tried to kill me?” Onyx asked.
“Besides the obvious part where he wanted you dead?”
“Yes, besides that,” Onyx said.
“No.”
“Fear,” Onyx said. “At every fork in the road, every time Ulrich was presented with a choice, he picked the shortest, easiest path. This may surprise you, but I don’t blame him for it. It’s our nature as human beings, Mr. Ashley. To take the easy road, the path of least resistance. The question is can we find the strength to fight our nature? To deny ourselves the shortest, easiest route—the path we know—deep in our hearts—that will only lead us to temporary happiness. Can we dig deep within ourselves to take the longer road and make the tougher but wiser decision? That’s what I blame Ulrich for. For not fighting his nature.”
“Are you suggesting my nature is to quit when the going gets difficult, Onyx?”
“I don’t know,” Onyx said. “Do you?”
“I don’t see what purpose this conversation serves,” Alistar said. “Even if I could summon the courage to follow my original dream, it’s too late now.”
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“Late? Perhaps. But too late?” Onyx said. “As long as you have a beating heart, it’s never too late. But you do need to get on with it. Trust me on this, Mr. Ashley—every second you squander is an affront to an unforgiving universe.”
“An unforgiving universe,” Alistar repeated. “Maybe I’ll make those the final words of the book.”
“Yes, the book,” Onyx said. “Write what you wish. Once my tombstone has been etched and I’m in the ground next to my father, I’ll no longer care what tale you tell about me.”
“Don’t worry, Onyx, I won’t publish a word until—”
“You best be going, Mr. Ashley,” Onyx said. “They say it’s going to snow.”
Onyx listened as the Aston Martin drove away—perhaps for the last time. Then it became quiet—as quiet and still as Onyx could ever remember. And she realized she was alone. Not just alone by herself in the lighthouse. She was alone in the world.
Everyone Onyx had ever known and cared about was gone.
Her father.
Ulrich.
Katherine.
And now Alistar.
Alistar felt like he was trapped? He wasn’t trapped. Alistar had the option of walking away if he wished to. The option of starting life anew, and pursuing his dreams before it was too late. Not that ignoring one’s vows of marriage or getting a divorce was honorable—but at least he had the option.
Onyx had options once, too, but refused to take them. And where had that gotten her? Talk about being trapped.
Then Onyx heard them—off in the distance, too heavy to stay aloft any longer—fluttering through the sky and hitting the ground like feathers.
Snowflakes.
Big, moist snowflakes, the kind children hoped for. The kind of snow you could make snowballs and snowmen from.
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