“Poor you. It’s very cool stuff. All of the pagan religions are based in polytheistic pantheon worship. The Christians had to work within the confines of the pagan structure when they converted the masses. That’s why Catholicism has so many pagan rituals. The incense, the candles, the feast days, the saints. Mary correlates to the Goddess, Christ to the God. The saints are also a direct corollary to the pantheon of Gods and goddesses. They represent the same things, protection for specific parts of life—crops, welfare, war. It’s fascinating, actually.”
“Honey, we’re in the belt buckle of the Bible Belt. They didn’t teach us about that. It is interesting, but what does it have to do with this case? You think we’re dealing with pagans? I thought you said sanguine vampires.”
He sighed. “I’m thinking that there’s more to all of this than meets the eye, and I’m trying to keep an open mind.”
“Well, I think we’re dealing with crazy people, people who took it upon themselves to kill seven children. I can get all romantic about the old ways too, but that’s not going to solve this case. I have to produce a suspect, and fast. Which means regular old police work instead of a history lesson.”
“Let me go do some research. The killer might be in an altered state, especially if he’s under the influence of drugs. We can’t forget that someone shot the video, and that shakiness means handheld camera. We’re certainly dealing with more than one person.”
“Great. Just what we need.” She thought for a moment. “Maybe the killer in the video is the person Lincoln saw in the videotapes we took from the scenes last night. God. We have seven dead, one clinging to life, a letter from someone claiming to have killed them and a film of the whole event. Vampires and witches running amok in Nashville. This will definitely make the national news,” she muttered, turning onto Eighth Avenue, then onto Church.
She stopped in front of the Nashville Public Library. The soaring three-story stone edifice with its Roman columns seemed overwhelmingly prescient. Great, she was going to be seeing symbols in everything now.
A homeless man wandered near the car and glared at her, then turned back to his meandering shuffle, across to the park to join his cronies. The irony wasn’t lost on her—the library and its traditional representation of enlightenment and education being watched over by the forgotten people.
“Do you still want to go with me to Hillsboro? I can pick you up on the way.”
“Yeah. That sounds good. I’ll call you in a bit. This shouldn’t take me long.”
He climbed out of the car, already lost in his world. He disappeared through the ornate doors and she sighed. She didn’t know why, but seeing him walk away reminded her of Memphis. James “Memphis” Highsmythe, the Viscount Dulsie, special liaison to the terrorism Behavioral Analysis Unit in Quantico for the Metropolitan Police at New Scotland Yard, to be precise.
Baldwin had seen Memphis in Quantico last week, moving into his new office. She hadn’t told Baldwin that Memphis had also been in touch with her.
Memphis had been good for the past few weeks. After their interlude in Florence, a kiss that stayed with her for days after, she’d received a few discreet texts and e-mails, nothing that couldn’t be shown to Baldwin if the question arose. But yesterday, before she’d been publicly reinstated, a bouquet of white roses had appeared on her desk. The card simply read, Love, M.
She’d gone through all of the appropriate emotions, and the not so appropriate ones, as well. Love, M, indeed. It would have been fine—nothing—really, if Baldwin hadn’t seen it. He hadn’t said anything, but clenched his jaw so tightly that the muscle jumped deep in the flesh. She hated Memphis for upsetting Baldwin, hated him for being so arrogant as to send her roses with a card that read, Love. But she was happy at the same time, and didn’t understand what that meant.
She got mad thinking about it again, slammed the car into gear and pushed the accelerator harder than necessary, making the wheels squeal under her as she shot away from the curb. Distracted, she barely watched the lanes in front of her, crowded with tourists intent on crossing the streets against the lights to enjoy a few hours of entertainment on Lower Broad. She finally got fed up, cut across to Union Street and flew up Fifth, wrestling all thoughts of Memphis back into their appropriate place. She couldn’t keep doing this, but she didn’t know how to make it stop. She didn’t want him. That should be all that mattered. Yet thoughts of him kept crowding in at the most inopportune moments.
She wanted to talk to Sam about it, but Sam was already upset and attuned to the breach in Taylor’s mental protocol. They’d assiduously avoided the topic after Sam bitched her out for flirting with Memphis at an autopsy. Taylor’s face burned at the thought of their fight—she hadn’t been consciously flirting and was hurt that Sam had implied otherwise. But now, after Memphis told her so starkly what he was feeling, now that they’d had some physical contact, regardless of how minute it was, she didn’t know how to put her emotions into words for her best friend.
And since Sam was pregnant again, she’d be drawing in, focusing on herself and her family. Taylor’s silliness wouldn’t be of importance. She suddenly felt isolated, alone, for the first time in several years. Truth be told, she didn’t have that many friends who she felt she could talk to, not about matters of the heart.
Nothing to be done for it, then. Shrugging to herself, she chalked it up to being lucky to be found attractive by two men, and left it at that. Baldwin was the better of the two, the one she wanted to be with forever, and she certainly didn’t plan on endangering their relationship because another man had a little crush on her.
Thinking about other men invariably led her to Fitz, and she reminded herself to call the North Carolina State Bureau of Investigation again. Surely she’d find someone there who could listen to her side of the story, who would be willing to put pressure on the Coast Guard, or search the ports, something, anything, to help her find him. She felt her blood pressure rise thinking about her theory—that the Pretender had taken Fitz—and felt better. Fired up. Worrying about Fitz was much more important than worrying about Memphis.
She passed the offices of Channel Five, wondered what they were cooking up today. The Green Hills Massacre, they’d called it this morning, with shots of Taylor speaking at the press conference. She honestly didn’t think she’d ever felt more pressure to move forward on a case than she did at this moment.
Sixteen
Quantico
June 15, 2004
Baldwin
The alarm rang insistently.
God, morning already? There was a dull ache in his head. He kept his eyes closed against the glare. He’d forgotten the blinds last night, and sun was leaking in through the wooden slats. His mouth was completely dry—it took a few tries to work up enough lubrication to swallow. When he did, the taste of bourbon rose on his tongue. That’s right. He’d been drinking last night. They all had. The sight of that little body just off the trail in Great Falls Park, broken and pale, her legs shattered, her blond hair slashing across her face like a golden blindfold, was enough to set them all off.
He shifted his head, and pain shot through his temples. Wonderful. A hangover to help with the autopsy of little Susan Travers.
He cracked an eye and saw the clock—7:45 a.m. The beeping seemed to be getting louder. He reached out to stifle the god-awful racket and realized his arm was pinned. He tugged experimentally and felt the pressure, wasn’t cogent enough to realize why. He swiveled his head to the left slowly and saw a spill of dark red hair, like blood, across his pillow.
He fought the urge to pull his arm back as if bitten by a snake. Oh, shit. What had he done?
The owner of the red hair shifted slightly, allowing him to retrieve his arm. It was fully asleep, and he gasped slightly as blood rushed back into the deadened nerves.
“Aren’t you going to turn that off?” a sleepy, throaty voice asked.
Charlotte.
Jesus, he must have had more to drink than he thou
ght. He didn’t remember…oh, now it was coming back. He’d walked her to her car. She’d been crying. He, ever the gallant savior, had brushed a tear away with his knuckle, and then she’d been closer, touching him in a way they both knew wasn’t a good idea. His head had dipped and the feeling of her soft lips overwhelmed him. It had been too long since he’d been with a woman, and his body ached with the need to feel inside her.
He’d felt inside her, all right. He could feel the stickiness in his groin, and the flesh there tightened in memory.
He reached over and silenced the alarm. He glanced to his left, saw the wide amber eyes staring at him. An awkward quiet settled upon them, then Charlotte smiled. He felt a delicate hand straying up his thigh. He couldn’t help himself—he reacted quickly. With one part of his mind screaming, What in the hell are you doing? he shifted his hips a bit so her hand landed directly on him. She stroked him, softly, expertly, her free hand roaming across his chest, and when he could stand it no longer he rolled on top of her, parting her legs with his knee, catching her lips in a kiss. He drove himself deep between her thighs, not caring if he hurt her. From what he remembered of last night, Charlotte liked it a bit rough.
He heard her breath catch as he entered her, felt her teeth on his lower lip. She raked her nails along the already tender flesh of his back—Jesus, she’d scratched him open. He had a moment’s urge to bite her in payback. Instead, he reached his arms around her back and used his hands to cup her buttocks and lift her slightly, allowing him to go deeper and deeper. She was fighting him now, matching each thrust with one of her own, her legs thrown around his waist, her eyes focused inward. He remembered that look from last night, and smiled. The exquisite building began, the age-old rhythm going faster and faster, and he lost himself, not hearing her triumphant cries.
Thirty minutes later, freshly showered and holding a cup of steaming coffee, he stood in the kitchen of his apartment, watching Charlotte move around his home with a practiced eye.
She picked up the new John Connolly he was reading, Bad Men. Baldwin almost laughed when he saw the book in her hand; the title took on a whole new meaning for him this morning.
Charlotte smiled at him, a predatory housecat on the prowl. “You have good taste.”
“He’s always been one of my favorites. Coffee?”
She looked across the room at him, the mask dropped, her body angled in sly invitation. She arched her back and said, “Mmm, yes, please.”
“Coming right up.” He moved to the coffeepot and poured her a cup, pretending he didn’t hear her next statement.
“I could get used to this,” she said, and he shuddered inside. The last thing he needed was an involvement with one of his team. He’d already stepped over the line.
He splashed another swallow of coffee in his mug, then turned to her, keeping his face as neutral as possible. He didn’t want to encourage this. It was a mistake. He handed her the cup.
“When you’re done, let me drop you at your car. We can’t go into the office together. I don’t need any more scrutiny than I already have.”
Her face dropped for the briefest of seconds, then she recovered, raising a delicate eyebrow. “Like that, is it? You’d rather pretend that last night and this morning never happened?”
She sidled into the kitchen, sinuous and graceful, slipping her arms around his waist. He had to admit, she was incredibly appealing. The scent of musk and roses filled his nostrils, and he breathed in deeply, aware that he was hard again. Good grief. He’d unleashed the genie in the bottle.
“It’s not a good idea, Charlotte. You’re a beautiful, intelligent woman, but—”
Charlotte was rubbing against him again, grinding her hips into his with precision. She set her coffee down, then took the mug from his hand and transferred the warmed flesh to her now-exposed breast. How did she manage to get out of her shirt so quickly? He lowered his head and flicked his tongue across her nipple. She accepted the invitation and eased down his zipper. He glanced over her head at the clock on the stove and decided, what the hell. He’d been under enough pressure lately. Maybe he’d been wrong to fight this. Maybe being with Charlotte was exactly what he needed.
Charlotte was small, only around five foot five, and easily lifted. She was wearing a tight black skirt, the same one that had been bothering him the night before. He quickly discovered she’d neglected to put on any underwear. He settled her on the counter, bent her backward, running his palm down the length of her body, and sheathed himself again. She giggled, and he felt a laugh build in his own chest. Here they were, going at it like a couple of teenagers, not even bothering to undress. It felt good. Better than he could have ever expected.
Charlotte
Baldwin dropped her at the car in a strangled silence. Embarrassed? Regretful? She didn’t know his looks well enough to be able to tell what he was thinking. Not yet.
She respected his discomfiture, slipped out of the car without saying anything. She had a fresh change of clothes in her trunk—she always had a go bag packed for the times they needed to attend to a crime scene in person. She drove to work, slung the bag over her shoulder and slipped inside. Only the guards at the desk saw her, and who were they to comment? It wasn’t the first time an agent had done the walk of shame into work.
After she changed, Charlotte took an extralong time in the bathroom. She hadn’t been able to do her hair properly—instead of fine, red silk, the ends were waving and a bit frizzy. She used a special boar-bristle brush to get them tamed down, then reapplied some makeup.
There, that was better. Would they be able to tell? She stared in the mirror, taking in every detail. Yes, her lips were a bit puffy and red around the edges. His beard, all bristly, had scraped the tender skin nearly raw. She thought about the other parts that were raw and was pleased to see a fine flush make its way up the bone-china skin of her neck into her cheeks. Oh, that was pretty. She looked ripe, a perfect grape plucked from the vine.
No wonder he couldn’t resist. She’d make sure he never would again. She knew how to press his buttons now.
She grabbed her bag and went to her desk. The rest of the team was already assembled. Butler and Geroux didn’t give her much of a second glance, but Sparrow looked at her, eyes narrowing. Charlotte mustered up the most angelic, innocent smile she could, then raised her eyebrow in a sultry hello. Sparrow openly thawed.
She’d need to be careful there. It was going to be tricky navigating two relationships, especially if Sparrow wanted to start getting possessive. Sparrow was a pretty girl, prettier than she knew, trim and athletic, with an adorable crossbite. Charlotte had seduced her three weeks ago, after a long evening celebrating the close of their first case as a team. They’d done the girl thing, slipped off to the bathroom together, and Charlotte had locked the door behind them and let Sparrow go down on her while she sat on the counter with her legs spread wide.
Goodness, she was starting to feel quite warm. Mmm, maybe Baldwin and Sparrow? No, probably not. Baldwin seemed a bit too parochial for all that. But it made for a nice fantasy. This was the way she preferred to live her life, with one partner of each sex on the hook. Hard and soft, dark and light. She smiled to herself, then opened her computer, just barely pushing the image of the three of them intertwined on Baldwin’s office floor from her mind. She needed to focus. This case, this stupidly named case, was driving her mad.
She didn’t understand men who committed crimes against children. Adult-on-adult violence, yes, she could fathom that. It was one of the things that made her a good profiler—she had a certain empathy with the killers. For her dissertation she’d interviewed more than forty serial offenders, and almost all of them had given new information in their cases. One had even coughed up the location of a body—shocking, considering he’d been using it as leverage to keep his privileges.
Yes, she was good with killers. She’d excelled in her classes, gotten her Ph.D. in record time, had been snapped up by the Bureau right out of school. She�
��d worked her way into the BAU with a combination of intelligence and sheer guts. But working cases involving children was not her forte.
Sparrow came into her office with a stack of files.
“More sex offenders to interview today.” She barely brushed her arm against Charlotte’s shoulder as she placed the folders on the desk.
Charlotte scooted her chair back a little and swiveled so she could see Sparrow face on. She raised an eyebrow and waited in silence. She knew what was coming.
“I tried calling you last night. I thought we were supposed to meet up.”
“You called?” Charlotte feigned innocence—God, she should win an Oscar for that tone. “I must have slept right through it. Yesterday was so awful, and I had a lot to drink last night. I’m sorry, honey.”
Sparrow blushed at the endearment. “Well, maybe tonight? We could get Indian. I know how much you love it. Drink some wine, unwind a little?”
“Maybe tonight, sugar. We’ll have to see what the day brings though, right? Lord knows there’s a creep out there just waiting to be caught. Let’s go get him, yeah?”
She ran her fingernail up Sparrow’s leg, then flipped her chair back into the proper position and pulled the first file off the stack. Sparrow, firmly dismissed, hesitated a moment, then left her in peace.
Yes, this was going to be very, very complicated.
Seventeen
Nashville
8:50 a.m.
The CJC sat baking in the late fall sun, heat shimmering off the building’s bricks. Taylor hadn’t realized just how warm it was today—after the previous night’s chill, it felt almost like summer. Crazy weather for the first of November.
People flowed in and out of the building, officers in uniform and plainclothes detectives, random strangers looking for the courts, black and white and yellow and brown, all mingling into one stew of justice. The diversity of Nashville was never better represented than in this one spot—the Criminal Justice Center in the morning.
The Immortals Page 12
