The Immortals

by J. T. Ellison

  “I’m not sure what to say. I never thought—”

  “Would you rather I stay and we stop seeing each other?” There, she’d thrown down the challenge. Now she’d know just how serious he was about her.

  Baldwin didn’t answer right away. Shit. That wasn’t the reaction she’d hoped for.

  “Forget I said anything,” she said, injecting as much ice into her voice as she could. She stood up, dropped the file on the coffee table. It knocked into her Scotch, splashing some on the edge.

  “Whoa, Charlotte, hold on.” Baldwin was on his feet too, his hands gripping her arms like a vise. He was so damn strong, even if she wanted to get away, she wouldn’t be able to pry herself loose.

  He leaned in to kiss her. She tried to hold very still and not respond, but that only lasted a moment. She felt his tongue flick at the edge of her lips and opened her mouth, accepting him. He tasted like Scotch and honey, and she kissed him greedily, unsure whether this was the last time, or just the beginning.

  When they finally broke for air, Baldwin gave her a smile.

  “We’ll talk about it again in the morning.”

  Forty-Four

  Nashville

  5:00 p.m.

  McKenzie leaned across the table.

  “Who is he, Fane?”

  The girl just shook her head, eyes darting toward the door.

  “Talk to me, Fane. Who is going to kill everyone?”

  She glared at him, lips closed tight together. McKenzie tried a few more times, then shook his head at the camera. He stood and left the room, met Taylor in the hall.

  “At least she didn’t lawyer up, like Susan Norwood.”

  “That’s a plus. Her parents are nowhere to be found.”

  “Crime Scene find anything at her house?”

  “Nothing that I’ve heard of yet. I’ll put a call into Tim, see if he’s got anything. I need to go talk to Susan Norwood’s parents. Want to come?”

  “Yeah. When are you heading over to Forensic Medical?”

  “Oh, damn. I forgot Sam needed to talk to me. I better call her.” She flipped open her phone and speed-dialed Sam. She answered, gruff and impatient.

  “About damn time you called me back. I’ve got some stuff for you.”

  “Sorry. It’s been a crazy morning. Can you cover it on the phone or do I need to be there in person?”

  “I’ll just tell you. Brandon Scott? Anal tearing, evidence of extensive sexual abuse. Recent and past traumas.”

  Taylor felt her heart drop. “You’re kidding.”

  “I wish I were. Either he’s an active homosexual, or he’s been raped repeatedly.”

  “How recent? Was there a PERK done?”

  “Yes, and the physical evidence recovery kit got us exactly squat. I cultured some blood, but it ended up being his. There were no other bodily fluids. There was lubricant, probably from a condom. I couldn’t tell you the last time it happened definitively, but it was recent enough. One more thing—his tox came back clean, just like we thought. He was killed outright, overpowered and beaten to death. COD is blunt force trauma and attendant exsanguination. The rest are drug overdoses.

  “He died first too, before the others. His liver temp and vitreous fluid confirm it. He was dead between 12:30 and 2:00 p.m. on the thirty-first. The others are in the two to three range.”

  Damn. This was why she liked to attend the posts herself; she could have used this information in her earlier interrogations. No matter, she had it now.

  “The dosed Ecstasy was the cause?”

  “That’s the most likely scenario.”

  “Okay, Sam. Thank you for this. I’ll toss it into our mix. Do you need anything else from me?”

  “Just stop sending lab work to my husband. I haven’t seen him in two days.” But there was a smile in her voice.

  “I’ll owe you both a nice dinner. We’re close here, so hopefully we won’t keep Simon hopping for much longer. Have a good afternoon, okay?”

  “You, too. Don’t work too hard.” She clicked off and Taylor told McKenzie about Brandon Scott.

  He looked pained. “Really? I wonder…” He ran his hands through his hair, got a faraway look in his eyes that Taylor was starting to recognize. He was about to take a leap of faith.

  “You wonder what?”

  “Remember Ms. Woodall, at Hillsboro, said Jerrold King and Brandon Scott got into an argument last week? There were some threats made?”

  “Yes, I do. Letha King figured it was about her—she and Brandon used to date, and Jerrold was upset that Brandon had dumped her. You think it was something else?”

  “Maybe Jerrold and Brandon were lovers.”

  “Wouldn’t Sam have found evidence of that on Jerrold King’s body?”

  “Depends on who was pitching and who was catching, if you get my drift.”

  Taylor thought about that for a minute. “So Jerrold King kills Brandon Scott in some sort of fit of rage, then goes home and kills himself with a lethal dose of Ecstasy? It would sound perfect if there weren’t six other kids dead.”

  “Good point. Still, it’s something to ask around about.”

  “I agree. I wonder if Theo Howell knows anything about it? He seems pretty tied into this group.”

  “Well, why don’t we ask him?”

  The Homicide offices were jam-packed with people. All the interrogation rooms were occupied—the Norwoods, with their daughter and her lawyer in Interrogation One; Fane Atilio in Two; Theo Howell and his parents in Three. Lincoln, Marcus and Renn were all in the offices proper, having a deep discussion. Taylor cleared her throat and they jumped.

  “What’s up?” she asked.

  Lincoln rubbed his dreads. “Nothing good yet, LT. The video was definitely uploaded from Fane Atilio’s laptop. There’s a ton of correspondence—it’s going to take ages to get through. One address pops up most often, and the back-and-forth has got some seriously graphic content, NC-17 all the way.”

  “Not underage porn again, I hope.”

  Marcus blushed. “Close enough. It’s sex talk, between Fane and a boy. She never uses his name, but it’s pretty explicit. I felt like I was reading an erotic novel.”

  “Can you trace the e-mail address?”

  “I’m on it,” Lincoln said. “There’s something strange about it though. It’s part of a single account.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You know how when you set up an e-mail account, you can set up multiple addresses—aliases, they call them. Say you and Baldwin got a DSL connection through BellSouth, and you both wanted separate e-mail addresses, but didn’t want to pay for separate accounts. You could set up to fifty aliases on that particular account at no extra charge.”

  “And who is the owner of the account?”

  “Jacqueline Atilio.”

  “Is that Fane’s real name? Jacqueline?”

  “No, her legal name is Fane Rebecca Atilio.”

  “So Jacqueline might be her mother, who we can’t find?”

  “That’s what I’m thinking. I’ve looked into her accounts, and I’ve seen almost no activity outside of ATM withdrawals for the past three weeks. All from the same U.S. Bank branch in Green Hills, one each day for the past week, for the maximum daily limit on the account, three hundred dollars.”

  “That’s odd. Let’s get the tapes from those ATM withdrawals.”

  “On it.”

  “Lincoln, what else do you have?”

  “I’m overloaded with text messages and IMs to decipher. I’ve been going through all the laptops and phones, looking for anything that stands out. These kids spend a lot of time online, that’s for sure.”

  “What about Facebook and MySpace, Twitter accounts? Are they talking about it anywhere?”

  “We’re about halfway through everyone’s profiles. Nothing’s leaping out just yet.”

  “Be sure you check out Fane Atilio. See if she’s got any ties anywhere. And let me know about the ATM withdrawals as soon as you
can.”

  “Will do.”

  McKenzie caught her eye. “The Howells are here—you saw that, right?”

  “I did. I’m about to go talk to them. And the Norwoods.”

  “Good. Umm, about the Scott boy’s autopsy? I’d like to look through all of his files for anything that might lead us to an answer for his…condition.” McKenzie said the word with a delicacy that she knew was difficult for him.

  She looked him deep in the eye. “Good. I’m counting on you to find something there. I think it’s important. I still think Brandon Scott was the target of these attacks. Find out why for me, okay?”

  “Yes, LT. I’m on it.”

  “Marcus, where are we with Crime Scene? Any links?”

  “We’ve got fibers and fluids and fingerprints galore. It’s taking some time to isolate.”

  “Anything that points in the direction of our suspects?”

  “Not yet. I’ll get a call in to Simon Loughley at Private Match. He said he was going to fast-track that DNA from the wounds. Maybe he’s close. And there are no matches for that dark hair found at the Vanderwood crime scene.”

  “Okay. Y’all scatter. I’m going to talk to the Howells first, I think.”

  They didn’t move. “Taylor,” Marcus said, then broke off.

  “What?”

  “Ariadne said something happened to Fitz. Do you know anything about it?”

  Taylor froze. How dare she? How dare she talk to them without Taylor’s permission? Where did that woman get off? This was none of her concern, and she knew nothing anyway.

  “What did she say?” she asked, her voice hollow.

  Marcus looked very young. “That he’d been hurt and you were terribly worried for him.”

  Taylor pulled her hair down with a vicious tug, the blond spilling over her shoulders. She didn’t want to have this conversation right now, she needed to keep them focused. She needed to keep focused.

  “Ariadne knows nothing about Fitz’s case. Baldwin called me this morning with some news. The SBI believes they’ve found his trail. The good news is the North Carolina police are ramping up the search. We’ve had unsubstantiated reports of an…injury…to his eye, but that’s all we have right now. I’ll let you know the minute I know more, I promise.”

  It wasn’t an outright lie, at least. She hated to deceive them at all, but she couldn’t have them drawn away from the case at hand, not yet. Not when they were so close.

  “That’s good news though, isn’t it?” Marcus asked.

  “I hope so, puppy. I hope so. Okay, let’s get to work. Who has an eye on Glenda the Good Witch? Or did she wrangle her broomstick home?”

  “I’m here, Lieutenant.” Taylor jerked around—she hadn’t heard the woman walk into the room. Ariadne had her usual beatific smile in place, appearing completely un-perturbed by Taylor’s barbs. Taylor wasn’t sure she particularly liked the access this woman had to her. It was making her very uncomfortable.

  “We don’t really ride the brooms, you know,” she said.

  “She was in your office, LT.” Lincoln had the good sense to look chagrined. “It was the only place to stash her, outside of the conference room.”

  “And you don’t want me in there, near all those piles of information. You never know what might go missing.” Ariadne smiled sweetly at Taylor.

  Taylor narrowed her eyes and said, “My office, please. Now.” She turned to her team. “The rest of you, get to it.”

  She crossed the room to her office, felt Ariadne behind her. She stepped inside and went to her desk, signaling for her to take the chair in front and close the door. Once she was seated, Ariadne dropped the smile.

  “Lieutenant, I’m feeling a great disturbance—”

  Taylor cut her off. “Listen to me. You’ve done us a great service, pointing us in what seems to be the right direction on these murders. But I’m going to have you taken home now. We can take it from here.”

  “No, you can’t,” she said simply.

  “Actually, yes, we can. We’ve got all the components now, it’s just a matter of unraveling the evidence. We’re almost there.”

  Ariadne shook her head. “You just don’t get it, Lieutenant. It’s not over. You’re still missing the warlock who is at the heart of this.”

  “Do you know where he is?”

  Ariadne shook her head. “But—”

  “Then you need to go home and let us do our jobs. We’re actually quite good at finding people, you know.”

  “Not when they’ve got cloaking spells in place. You won’t see him until he wants you to, Lieutenant. And by then it’s going to be too late.”

  “Cloaking spells. Come on, lady. You’re starting to sound flat-out batty. It’s time to go.” Taylor stood. Ariadne’s face was a mask—she didn’t move from her chair.

  “Do you know how many of us are out there, Lieutenant? In and out of the broom closet?”

  “The broom closet?”

  “Some coven members like to keep themselves hidden from their secular lives, Lieutenant. They don’t want the rest of the world to know that they’re practicing. We call that ‘in the broom closet.’ Samhain, Halloween, is the only night of the year when we can publicly flaunt ourselves. Christians, Jews, Wiccans, Goths, pagans—all the alternate religions, and most of the mainstream ones, recognize this night. Harmless activities have replaced the pagan rituals—dressing up, trick-or-treating, jack-o’-lanterns. By recognizing these symbols year after year, the associations are made. You have granted this date significance, and its power comes from that. It is the one holiday that we all have in common, religious and secular, throughout the world, and that makes it twice as powerful. When someone recognizes us on Samhain our spirits reincarnate, because we believe that we will live on long after our deaths. We have a great deal of power on Samhain. These children know this. They’ve utilized the symbolic to help their purpose. They’re perverting our ways, and I want them punished.”

  “That’s for the courts to decide, Ariadne.”

  “Not entirely true, Lieutenant. We are responsible for these children’s actions, just as surely as they are.”

  “Ariadne, really. I appreciate your help so far, but I’ve got to go back to the practical world. I’ll have a patrol get you home safe.”

  The note of finality in her voice was enough, at last. Ariadne bowed her head, stood and said, “As you wish.”

  Forty-Five

  Quantico

  June 18, 2004

  Baldwin

  The phone startled Baldwin awake. He saw the number and cursed. Goldman. He put the phone to his ear and pretended to sound alert. It was only 6:00 a.m.

  “This is John Baldwin.”

  “We found her.”

  Three little words. Baldwin felt his heart sink. They’d failed, again. For the sixth time, they’d failed.

  The forest was silent. The rain had made the path sloppy, it was slow going. The birds knew they were coming and after a flurry of wings and warning cries, had clammed up. All Baldwin could hear was the sound of the team’s feet on the gravel path, the soft layer of fallen leaves cushioning each step. The cycle of life was never more apparent to him than when he was surrounded by trees. No matter the season, shedding occurred.

  Charlotte was breathing heavily behind him. They’d been hiking uphill for the better part of an hour now, and she was getting winded. At least she’d worn boots, although he could tell they were brand-new and bet she’d have some seriously impressive blisters by now. He’d never seen her in anything but the highest of heels. And barefoot, of course.

  He glanced back at her, red hair billowing out of a ponytail, a small moue of distaste on her lips, and felt his breath catch when he thought of that hair lying across his thighs. She’d been at his place every night this week, and he was starting to enjoy not waking up alone. She’d become a comfort, in addition to a bedmate, and he knew he was getting in way over his head. The two halves of his brain had been arguing in the backgro
und, creating a fuzz of noise like an out-of-range radio station. He’d been trying very hard to ignore the fight, but in the quiet of the forest, he couldn’t tune it out. Now she wanted to transfer out of the BAU so they could be together. The thought frightened him more than anything. He wasn’t ready.

  It’s just sex, for Christ’s sake. What are you so twerped out about?

  I’ve been alone for too long. That’s what. I might get too comfortable with the situation, and you never know where it will lead.

  That’s your hormones talking. She’s worth lusting over. She might even actually like you, dummy. Did you ever think of that?

  He hadn’t. Not really. He just assumed he was a tool, a rung on the career ladder for her. What if he was wrong? What if she had real feelings for him? What if he had real feelings for her?

  Get your head back in the game, damn it. You’re about to see a dead girl. One who died because you were too busy fucking Charlotte to catch the killer.

  He breathed deeply, synchronizing his breath with the breeze cascading through the fragrant pines. Sunlight dappled the thick branches, turning the path gold. Physically, he was fine. He’d been training for the Marine Corps Marathon for the past few months and was in the best shape of his life. Emotionally, though—that was another story.

  He’d never been so sure of his gut instinct before. Harold Arlen was their suspect. He was the Clockwork Killer. Every law enforcement officer, every neighbor, every member of the media, everyone, everyone thought Arlen was responsible. The pictures on his computer, his interactions with Evie Kilmeade, all of his actions led them to that conclusion.

  But there was still absolutely zero physical evidence to prove that. They had no semen, saliva, hair, blood, epithelials, fingerprints. Nothing. He’d violated his probation, but at the arraignment, the judge had unfathomably let him out on bond.

  A decent defense lawyer would make mincemeat of their case, and Arlen knew it. He had covered his tracks too damn well.

  Baldwin felt like he had gotten to know Harold Arlen, better than he’d known most suspects he’d hunted. Kilmeade had been right. On the surface, Arlen was the poster boy for reformed sexual predators. The nicest touch was helping to run the group for reformed molesters who met and worked their way through a specific twelve-step program designed just for them. No one could get inside his head, though—into the tiny, nasty little crevices that housed his innermost desires. Baldwin had caught a glimpse or two during the interviews, when Goldman had struck a nerve and Arlen had reacted. But for the most part, Arlen had taken the accusations in stride, shaking his head and occasionally quoting his “sponsor.”