by Ted Dekker
A pause. Then she went on delivering the data with practiced precision.
“The fact that he’s gone to such great lengths to avoid leaving any prints suggests he believes his prints are in the Automated Fingerprint Identification System (AFIS) database. Which in turn suggests he’s a professional. His killing is organized, patterned, premeditated, and clearly religiously motivated. He’s killing with motives that are consistent with a classic psychopathic profile—he knows right from wrong, and he chooses wrong. He will continue until he is captured or killed. His profile indicates that he will likely never be taken alive. Nothing else is known about Eve.”
Beat.
“Would you like me to tell you about you now? An even more fascinating case.”
“I know myself, thank you,” Daniel replied, offering her a polite grin.
“Do you?”
Lori said it with complete sincerity, as if she were his therapist and was only interested in the truth. Then she smiled. “I hope not. My mother always told me that men who think they know themselves are only stuck-up versions of those who don’t.”
“Smart lady.”
The soft hiss of the air conditioner settled the room.
“Like I said, Lori has familiarized herself with the case,” Montova said. His phone rang and he took the call. He nodded curtly and dropped the receiver back in its cradle.
“You’ll have time to fill in the blanks on the way.”
“Sir?”
“Local police in Manitou Springs, Colorado, just received a report of an abandoned white van found by two spelunkers near the Cave of the Winds. They found an entrance to an unmarked cave nearby. The report drew a flag from Eve’s ViCAP profile. Local enforcement is setting up a perimeter, but they’ve been told to stay out of the scene until you arrive.”
Daniel sat still, breath gone. Eve.
Ice crept through his veins.
Daniel stood and crossed the room in three long steps. He grabbed the doorknob and was halfway through before Montova’s voice stopped him.
“Lori goes with you.”
He spun back and saw that she was already right behind him.
“Fine.”
TWO
HEATHER CLARK GLANCED at her watch for the fifth time in as many minutes. Eleven o’clock, the note had said. Information you will kill for. The bar at the Emerald Dive. Limousine. Which was why she was here for the first time since the divorce.
Her friend, Raquel Graham, one of the better defense attorneys in Santa Monica, sat at the bar next to her, rocking subtly to the rhythmic tune blaring over the Emerald Dive’s sound system. The new music, she called it. As opposed to the old music, which had filled the radio waves when she and Raquel were tearing up Santa Monica in their twenties.
They all liked the new music, they just didn’t know the names of the bands. Or the songs, for that matter. Nothing as sensible as Red Hot Chili Peppers, which made a clear, definitive statement. What did names like Sky Block Streak say? Probably more than she cared to know.
The Emerald Dive catered to the professional downtown crowd— smart-dressed lawyers and such, half of whom Heather recognized from the major firms around town. She’d made partner at Biggs & Kofford a year earlier, ten years after signing on as a defense attorney. Another two years and her name would join Jerry Biggs and Kurt Kofford on the stationery. Assuming she stuck around.
Honestly, she doubted she would. The last year had ruined her for run-of-the-mill litigation.
Raquel tossed her dark hair, took another sip from the Tom Collins in front of her, and eyed Simon—a prosecutor from Los Angeles—as he crossed the room headed for the bathroom. They’d been dating a full month, something of a record for Raquel, who was thirty-nine and had yet to settle into any semblance of a permanent relationship. She tended to approach men the way she approached cases: moving from one to the next, always hoping for the next big payday.
“So this is the one, huh?” Heather asked, glancing at the clock on the wall.
Raquel offered up a whimsical smile. “Could be, you never know.”
“One month and counting.”
“I wouldn’t talk, sweetie.” Raquel raised a brow and took another sip. She nodded at a blond man across the bar, engrossed in a conversation with a friend. Jake Mackenzie, whom they both knew by reputation as an up-and-comer.
“There you go. You always did like blonds.”
“Please, he’s not a day over thirty.”
“And that’s a problem? You’re only thirty-seven, babe, and any guy in this place can see you put the rest of the competition to shame.”
Heather’s eyes shifted to the clock.
Raquel set her drink down. “Will you stop that?”
“Stop what?”
“You got a hot date I don’t know about? The clock!”
“It’s a sin to look at a clock?”
“I’m trying to help you out here, sweetie. You’ve been divorced—”
“Please, not the divorce talk again,” Heather said.
“Exactly. Forget the divorce already. You left that egotistical maniac almost two years ago for good reason. But no, you won’t let go, will you? No, we shall be called Heather Clark because we were once married to a god named Daniel Clark. Why did you leave him?”
“Because he was an egotistical maniac”—she took a sip—“that I fell in love with.”
“Listen to me.” Raquel turned Heather’s face toward her with a gentle hand. “Look at us. What do you see?”
“Two women, in a bar, at eleven on a Wednesday, when most reasonable lawyers our age are in bed.”
“Since when were you reasonable? You know what I see? The smartest defense attorney in Southern California, who’s so wrapped in the sad past that she’s forgotten how to live for the future. The fact that she happens to have a body that looks as tempting in a tank top and holey jeans as it does in a business suit only makes her misplaced desperation more tragic. Learn to live, sweetie. Trust me, you were born to sweep ’em off their feet.”
“Spoken like a seasoned litigator.”
Raquel turned back to the bar. She was right, of course. Time was marching on, and Heather had allowed the past to suck her in. If anyone knew just how deeply, they would probably arrange for therapy.
The Budweiser clock’s long hand tripped the large twelve at the top. Heather scanned the patrons once again, but saw no one focused on her. Whoever had left the note would approach her.
Unless they didn’t want to be seen by Raquel. Heather had been working the Mendoza case for the last three months, a high-profile drug case involving a sixty-year-old Mexican woman who was being charged with laundering drug money through a dry cleaning business she owned. All the evidence pointed to an open-and-shut case, but after spending an afternoon with Marie Mendoza, Heather couldn’t bring herself to believe the woman was capable of, much less guilty of, the crime.
Someone else was pulling the strings. Someone who had a lot to hide.
If the note referred to information on the Mendoza case, as she assumed, it would likely come from a source interested in the strictest confidence.
Then again, she just might be meeting with someone who wanted her off the case and was simply luring her into an alley where they intended to whack her.
“We’ve got to get you a date, Heather. Give me that much.”
“I’ve had plenty of dates.” Her contact was late. She eyed the room for a sign from any man or woman who would acknowledge her.
“What, two since Daniel split?”
“Daniel didn’t split. I left him.” A dark-haired man with a strong jaw and thick brows entered the bar, scanned the crowd, and settled on her. His face looked like it had been pistol-whipped a time or two. Heather considered bailing.
“So you left him. What’s the difference?” Raquel said.
“The difference is, he still loves me.” She picked up her purse. “And you’re right, I do need more dates. Like the one I have tonight.”
Raquel faced her. “You have a date? Who?” She followed Heather’s stare across the room.
“Limo driver by the door. Don’t stare.”
“Him?”
“Him,” Heather said, standing. “If I’m not back in half an hour, call me. If I don’t answer, call the police.”
She left Raquel staring after her.
THE LIMO DRIVER with the grizzly face led Heather from the bar without speaking. Where he intended to take her, she had no idea, but she found the idea that she should follow him inadvisable. What was she thinking?
She stopped on the sidewalk ten yards from the bar’s front door. “Where are we going?”
He kept walking, offering no explanation, as if it made no difference to him whether she followed. He was simply doing what he was ordered to do.
She took a few more steps. “Excuse me, maybe I have this wrong, but I won’t just follow you without knowing where you’re taking me.”
He walked on. A younger man and his girlfriend or wife angling down the sidewalk stared at her, then back at the man she was talking to. She nodded politely, and, not eager for a scene, walked on.
The man veered to his left, walked up to an old black sedan, opened the door, and stared back at her. Still not a word.
Curious, she glanced back, saw several passersby watching, and decided to approach the car. She’d never get inside, of course. But to turn back now would only leave her clueless as to this information she would kill for.
She stopped five feet from the opened door, removed her eyes from the man who was now staring at her, and peered inside.
The car was empty.
The driver motioned to the backseat. “Get inside.”
“What is this?” she demanded.
“Please. I’m only doing what I’ve been paid to do.”
“You left the note?”
“Please—”
“If you have information, I’ll take it. Otherwise I’m afraid I have to get to my friends. They’re waiting.”
“I was told to tell you it’s about Daniel Clark,” the man said. “This could save his life.”
Dread replaced her annoyance.
“What is this? Who sent you?”
“That’s all I know. Please, lady, I don’t get paid unless you get inside.”
Several others on the sidewalk were now watching, whether curious or concerned she didn’t know or care. Ignoring the onlookers, Heather stepped into the black car and shifted to avoid being smacked by the door as it thudded closed.
The driver slipped behind the wheel and pulled away from the curb. He punched a number into his cell phone, listened for a moment, then disconnected without speaking.
“Where are we going?” Heather asked.
“Home.”
“You know where I live?”
A cell phone flashed on the seat next to her.
“Answer it,” the driver said.
She hesitated, then picked it up slowly. Flipped it open and lifted it to her ear.
The voice on the speaker was soft and low. “Do you love your husband, Mrs. Clark?”
“Who is this?”
“Do you love your husband?”
“We’re divorced.”
A static-filled pause.
“Is that why you’ve kept his name?”
“I really don’t see how it matters to you.”
“It doesn’t,” the voice said. “It matters to you. Please, tell me.”
The whole business was unnerving. But there were much easier ways to hurt someone. She doubted whoever was behind this had her harm in mind. They’d gone to some trouble to get her in a controlled environment and on an untraceable cell call.
She saw no harm in giving him an answer. “Of course.”
“Yes, of course. Would you kill for him?”
The question caught her broadside.
He clarified. “To bring him back, healthy, without this ridiculous obsession he has with . . . Eve. To have your husband’s love and affection. Would you kill?”
Maybe, she thought, then rejected the idea.
“The truth is, you love your husband very much.”
This time she said what came to mind. “Yes.”
“You may need to before it’s over. There’s more to this than what they all see on the surface.” The caller breathed into the phone. “Eve cannot be stopped.”
She didn’t have the words to reply.
“If Daniel tries to stop Eve, he will die. He’ll be dead tonight, or tomorrow, or in a week, or in a month, but in the end he will be dead.”
This was Eve speaking to her? She became aware of the tremble in her fingers. “You can’t know that.”
The caller waited before dismissing her in a soft voice. “You’re as obsessed with Eve as he is.”
The caller knew about the basement?
“Eve’s a sadistic killer who’s preying on young, innocent women,” she said.
“Not innocent, no. But this isn’t about sixteen young women.
It’s about Daniel. It’s about you. It’s about me. And it’s about what the world thinks of all of us when this is over.”
“Sixteen?”
No response.
The car stopped in front of her house.
“Even if this were all true, I don’t see how I can do anything. What you’re suggesting is . . . It has nothing to do with me!”
“Good night, Heather.” The line went dead.
She closed the phone, stunned.
The driver put his hand out. “Give me the phone.”
She did.
“Don’t waste your time trying to find me. Just the messenger who left you a note for a lot of money. Never met the guy and never will. Get out.”
Heather opened the door and climbed out. Without further explanation, the driver took the car into the night.
The suburban neighborhood was dark except for a few scattered porch lights. She felt lightheaded. Confused. Sick.
THREE
MIDNIGHT
THE TOWN OF Manitou Springs nestled in the shadows of Pikes Peak an hour’s drive south of Denver.
The FBI Citation had flown Daniel, Lori, and three other field agents to the municipal airport in Colorado Springs, where they’d met up with the tactical unit from the Colorado Springs PD. Three black Suburbans snaked their way up Highway 24 toward the Manitou Avenue exit.
Daniel followed the lead car. Lori sat to his right, Brit Holman behind. The car’s tires hummed beneath them. No one spoke. They’d said what needed to be said on the flight over the Rockies. Success today would all come down to luck, and the hope that in his boldness the UNSUB had made a mistake.
The stakes were clear. Assuming the hikers had identified the next murder scene, Eve was either present or not. Either he had a victim with him or he didn’t. If he had a victim, she was likely dead, like the other fifteen they’d found.
If she was alive, they would have their first real break in the case. An eyewitness.
If she was dead, they would be back where they started: armed with another dead girl but no further evidence of who Eve was beyond the fact that he wore boots, was white, drove vans with false registrations on occasion, was in his forties, knew a thing or two about disease, and had a rather substantial issue with young women.
They needed a break—if not an eyewitness, at least a better shot at evidence collection, which was why the local authorities were holding the perimeter without closing in. The last thing they needed was a SWAT team contaminating a virgin crime scene.
The walls in the FBI’s LA Major Crimes offices were plastered with a profile of Eve, most of it speculation based on what they did have, and most of it Daniel’s doing. Pysch profiles, religious profiles, education profiles, physical profiles. Enough to flesh out a living being who could stand up and walk out of the room to kill his next victim.
But speculation did not flesh make.
“This is it,” Lori said, staring at the Manitou Avenue sig
n ahead.
Daniel followed the lead vehicle through a tight right-hand exit loop and merged onto a deserted street that angled through the small, sleeping town. The scattered streetlights glowed with a yellow hue above them, diffused by a thin night fog.
They passed through the center of Manitou Springs, turned up Canon Avenue, snaked back under a highway bridge a hundred feet overhead, and entered a narrow canyon, leaving the last glimmer of light behind.
Darkness. Eve had a penchant for darkness.
Daniel glanced at Lori, now dressed in black slacks and tennis shoes. She wore her gun in a shoulder holster, a Heckler & Koch .40. He’d learned on the flight about her career with the bureau. Nine years on the force following medical school. A string of other details that he’d been too preoccupied to register.
With any luck, none of it would matter. If they failed tonight, he would take the time to understand his new partner, but for now Lori was just along for the ride.
William’s Canyon narrowed. They drove deeper, following the red taillights of the tactical vehicle that held Manitou Springs police officer Nate Sinclair, who had first confirmed the abandoned van’s location with the help of the two hikers. Evidently the hills surrounding the canyon were occupied by squatters who holed up in a system of caverns and caves that was still being mapped. Cave of the Winds was a tourist trap, but undiscovered cave systems were the draw for serious spelunkers.
Pine trees and aspens emerged from the fog on either side, just visible by the vehicle’s glaring lights.
Daniel lifted his radio. “How far?”
A voice he assumed belonged to Sinclair crackled back. “Half a mile.”
The canyon twisted around bends every fifty yards, hopefully cloaking their approach.
“Kill the lights,” Lori said.
Daniel caught her stare. She’d read his mind.
“I believe he waits nearby until he’s sure that his victim is dead,” she said. “Not with the victim, but close enough to maintain the surveillance.”
“I know, I wrote the profile.” He lifted the walkie-talkie again. “Kill the lights.”
