The massive concrete double-arched bridge that carried the Natchez Trace Parkway over Highway 96 appeared in front of him. He marveled at its size, the beauty of the lines, the grace of the curves echoing the breasts of a woman. He was nearly to the bridge when he saw a car on the side of the road. A car, and a woman.
His pulse quickened, he reflexively slowed his Prius. She was waving at him. Gesturing. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing. She was stunning: tiny waist, delicate features, her hair long and braided. He stopped behind her car, heart in his throat. She walked to him, thin hips swinging. Her skin was the color of mocha cream. Dear God, was this a sign? He was frozen.
She tapped on his window. When he met her eye, he knew.
He pushed the power button, the window slid down with a whisper.
“Thank God you stopped. I’ve been out here for twenty minutes and haven’t seen a soul!” She smiled at him, friendly, open. He didn’t quite know what to say. She took care of that for him.
“Can you give me a lift? My car’s out of gas and the battery is dead on my cell phone. My dad keeps telling me not to forget to charge it, but I did. Hey, cool Prius!”
The girl walked around to the other side of the car. Gavin just watched, knowing his eyes were wide and he must look like an idiot. He quickly redid his features into a semblance of friendliness, and unlocked the passenger-side door.
The girl yanked open the door, slid in and tossed her backpack on the floor in front of her. “So, like, what kind of music do you have in here?”
She reached for his iPod. Gavin held himself back. He didn’t like people touching his things, but this was a gift. This was a sign. This was his chance. He swallowed, and managed to grind out the words.
“All sorts. Where do you need to go?”
The girl cocked her head to the side like a spaniel. “Bellevue. I was on my way to the Y I’m a lifeguard up there, and I am totally late for my shift. They’ll probably fire me. Hey, don’t I know you? I’ve seen you there before, right?”
Oh, dear God. How to answer? Should he admit it? What if…He nearly laughed out loud with glee. He could tell her anything. He could lie. He could tell her a multitude of lies and she’d never know the difference. She would never know.
He put the car in gear. “The Y. Sure. Yeah. I think I recognize you, too,” he said. He’d never seen the girl in his life. Yet here she was, practically gift-wrapped. Sweat broke out on his forehead. Was this a test? Or the most beautiful of opportunities?
The girl was nannering on about his playlist on the iPod. Why didn’t he have anything cool and hip? Didn’t he have some Ashanti, or maybe some old-school Run DMC?
“I like classical,” he replied.
“That’s dumb,” she said, pouting. He nearly burst out laughing, then realized he hadn’t laughed in a very, very long time. It must be fate. This girl, his present, his doll, had made him smile.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
“Kendra. Kendra Kelley. What’s yours?”
He’d already made the decision by then, though he wouldn’t realize it until much, much later. “Gavin Adler.”
“Gavin. Cool name. Oh, hey, you just missed the turn. You need to go back that way.”
He ignored her. Within two miles, he could have her home. He finally took a second and listened to the nagging little voice in the back of his mind. That wouldn’t be smart. Not smart at all. You haven’t prepared. You know nothing about her. She might be missed. Don’t do it.
The anger at Morte’s harsh treatment burned in his skin. He didn’t do it on purpose. He’d had no idea Tommaso was Morte. That Tommaso was like him. It was purely a fluke that he’d uncovered the connection. He heard Morte, Tommaso’s voice in his head, the lines scrolling on an invisible computer screen.
Don’t even think about it, Gavin. She’s delectable, and would be a perfect doll, but you haven’t prepared. No preparation, no doll. Those are the rules. You know the rules.
But what if I succeed? What if she isn’t missed? I’ve missed the opportunity of a lifetime.
Don’t do it.
But I’m lonely.
Gavin thought about the dollhouse, lying quietly in the dark, empty. Waiting. Abandoned. So lonely. He was so good at his vocation. He could make her disappear. He could have a new doll. She’d practically asked for it. Stupid, stupid girl.
“Ga-vin,” Kendra singsonged. “You’re going the wrong wa-ay.” She smiled at him, her lips full, teeth straight, those braids clicking, and he thought he would burst. She would make such an exquisite doll! He could already see the bones of her collarbone sticking out; she was a tiny thing. It would be quick.
“This way is faster. It’s a shortcut,” he said. He sped up, taking the curves on Highway 100 at speed. Half a mile now, a quarter, Kendra next to him, chattering about something. He tuned her out. He tuned out his conscience. He tuned out Morte’s scrolling language, his anger. He would show him. He didn’t need Morte’s instructions. He started alone. He could stay alone from now on. Morte was the only reason he’d gotten flashy lately, gotten into the performance art. He was acting out the paintings, taking things a step further than Morte. Their competition was the driving force, and Gavin was winning. He was still the better artist—had more fully realized his settings. He’d acted his out, for God’s sake. Morte only imitated. Gavin was a conductor, Morte was first violin.
The Conductor. Oh, how he liked that.
His driveway was just ahead. He slowed, then turned. The drive was gravel; he needed to go carefully. He’d always meant to pave it, but never got around to it.
“I really think you’re going the wrong way,” Kendra said, with the tiniest tremor in her voice, guileless, clear chocolate eyes turned on him in doubt.
He pulled in front of the rambler and stopped. She glanced at him, at the house, and the first signs of panic started to cross her face.
“Didn’t your daddy tell you not to get into cars with strange men?” Gavin asked, and this time, he did smile. Kendra’s eyes flared white. She grabbed the handle of the door. Gavin was faster. With the refrain banging in his mind—don’t do it don’t do it don’t do it—he clobbered her over the head with the heavy printer cartridge. It slowed her down enough that he was able to take another shot. That one knocked her out. She slumped against the door, blood trickling down her face.
Gavin was breathing hard. See! he told his invisible voice triumphantly. I am the Conductor!
This was glorious! He needed to move. He launched himself out the driver’s-side door, rushed around the side of the car, slipping and going down on one knee at his right rear bumper. He righted himself, then opened the passenger door. Kendra fell out into his arms.
She was light; he carried her to the front door. He unlocked the door, then realized that maybe he should have gone in through the garage. He usually brought the dolls in under cover of darkness; it was still evening and the sunset outlined him against the door frame.
He glanced around, the girl becoming heavy in his arms. No, this was fine. No one around for miles.
He locked the door behind him, went directly to the basement door. The cat meowed loudly, unsettled at seeing his master rushing around without paying the slightest bit of attention to him.
Down in the basement, he opened the case. He stripped the prize, wiped her face clean of blood, then maneuvered her body into the box. Her arms and legs flopped unceremoniously. His erection strained painfully against his zipper.
“In you go,” he panted, out of breath. She fit perfectly. He closed the lid, locked the latches, and grabbed his chair. He sat heavily, staring. Unbelieving.
He had a brand-new doll.
And she had come to him.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Taylor sat in her old office, away from the B-shift detectives, watching a replay of the late local news with disgust. She’d like to strangle all of the reporters, and a few people in Metro’s ranks as well. They had a leak. She’d been pla
ying with the stupid Brit and hadn’t been on top of this. Served her right. She’d lost her focus.
Channel Four had scooped everyone, had gotten someone from the Radnor Lake crime scene to talk. One of the rangers, more than likely. But they would have had to confirm the information with an officer or technicians who’d been on the scene, and that’s what had her so riled up. Her people knew better. At least, when they were her people they did.
She watched as Demetria Kalodimos read the copy against a cutaway shot of the entrance to Radnor Lake. She threw it to Cynthia Williams, who let all of Middle Tennessee, parts of Kentucky and the northern tip of Alabama know that a postcard of a famous painting had been found at the scene, and that the police felt the two murders were connected.
Oh, this was not good. She’d never be able to unring this bell. They already had that damn name for him, the Conductor. Catchy and descriptive. Great. Just great. The crackpots would start coming out of the woodwork and lead them down false trails. The networks would get involved, and the national media platform would lead to the international news forums.
It all served to make her more determined. It was getting late and Taylor was tired, but she pushed that away. She needed to catch this suspect, now.
She shut off the television, went to her desk in the bullpen and turned on the computer. She started with the databases available to her, looking to match the names on the sheet to the DMV database. She wished the name would leap out at her, declare itself. I am your killer. Wouldn’t that be nice? It would certainly save her a lot of time.
The names from the copyright pages weren’t entirely unique either, which was going to be a problem. She’d have to run down every Gavin Adler, Al Hardy and Paul Theroux in town. The remaining names belonged to women, so Taylor triaged them. These crimes didn’t have a feminine touch, that was for sure.
The first search turned up seven entries for the Theroux name alone. She worked quickly, running addresses and criminal records for each name, cross-referencing with the DMV database, looking through the tax rolls.
She ended up with forty-six possibles. Forty-six. Too many. She needed to keep looking.
She narrowed the search further to Prius drivers, and got it down to eight. Eight was more manageable. Two G. Adlers, three A. or Al Hardys, and three P. or Paul Therouxs. Still, she was amazed that so many names matched white Priuses. It might be a mistake in the system. She’d have to check each one out, just to be certain. The Prius and the Infiniti G35 had usurped the BMW as Nashville’s car of choice, so it did make a perverse kind of sense.
Tyrone Hill’s interview popped into her head. He was right; the odds of a killer being foolish enough to use his personal vehicle in the commission of such a major crime would be slim. But it was a chance, and she took it, making a note to herself to look at rental agencies if this didn’t pan out.
She started with the full names, just in case. Initials usually meant women.
She matched the addresses from the car registrations to the driver’s license database, and had her jumping-off point. She ran arrest and probation histories, and narrowed the list down to four. Two Al Hardys and two Paul Therouxs. None of the Adlers had a history with the department. One of them, as a matter of fact, was so clean that she added it back into the mix. Their boy was careful, and it stood to reason that he might, just might, be completely off the radar.
That was a good enough start for her. Five possibles. Astounding, really, that so many of the names and cars matched and were in the system. She’d found a good groove. She’d had plenty of experience with the databases being a dead end.
She glanced at her watch—it was nearly midnight. She debated for the briefest of instances, then grabbed her keys. So she’d wake a few people up. Too bad. She was the one with the gun and the badge. She called Bob Parks to run the gauntlet with her; no way was she going to go knocking on doors at midnight alone. He’d recently been moved to the B-shift and was her overnight go-to guy. He was happy to join her; it was a quiet night for Nashville’s criminals and he had nothing cooking.
They hit the four houses closest to town; no one answered. Two of them had garages that could easily house a matching car with a matching license plate, so Parks check-marked them as a yes. She’d send someone out again tomorrow, in the daylight.
Two of the houses looked completely deserted; the addresses were most likely defunct. The DMV databases weren’t necessarily exact and current. They put a question mark next to those two names. The fifth and final address was out in her neck of the woods. They agreed to swing by this last address, and barring unforeseen issues, she would head home after and Parks would go back to prowling the streets.
She followed Parks down Highway 100, the moon lighting their path, careful to watch for deer. They loved to leap across this stretch of road. Close to the Davidson-Cheatham county line, this area was completely rural, quiet and dark.
They both missed the road where they needed to turn off, had to make a U-turn in the middle of nowhere. She pulled ahead of Parks and found the cross street on the second try. The house’s address was stenciled in white on only one side of the black metal mailbox. This was it. She pulled into a long, gravel driveway slowly, then exited her vehicle. Parks rolled in behind her, the lights of his cruiser blinding her for a moment. She shut her eyes, let them re-adjust to the night.
Nothing was happening here either, it seemed. The house was pitch-black, no movement, no lights. No white Prius.
They approached the door anyway, knocked twice. Nothing. Frustrated, they went back to their respective cars, boots crunching in the gravel.
“You givin’ up?” Parks asked.
She stretched, rubbing her fists in the small of her back. “Yeah. It’s late. I’ll send some patrols out here in the morning, try again.”
“You heard from Fitz?”
“No. Nothing.”
“I’m sure he’s fine. Don’t worry your pretty little head about it.”
His radio crackled; Dispatch requesting his assistance in a drunk and disorderly arrest outside The Corner Pub. He rubbed his moustache wearily, gave her a mock salute, then climbed into his patrol car and edged backward out of the driveway.
Taylor waved at him, then stood at the door to her car for a few moments, staring back at the deserted house. Could be whoever was inside was just a heavy sleeper, or no one was home at all. She felt a chill creep up her spine. What if this was their guy, and he was out hunting right now?
Oh, come on, Taylor. You’re making some serious leaps of logic now.
She climbed back in the car, yawning widely.
Time to call it a night.
*
There were noises. Cars in the gravel, doors slamming. Footsteps walking around the fountain. A shadow…my God, whoever it was just passed his basement window. He wasn’t worried about anyone seeing in; he’d applied a film that allowed him to look out but appeared dark from the outside. But it unnerved him, knowing someone was out there.
He heard the knocking and froze. It was very, very late. He wasn’t even sure it was knocking at first; maybe he’d fallen asleep, was dreaming all of this. He was in the basement, it might be Art, playing. But no, there it was again. All the lights were off. He didn’t move.
The doll whimpered in her sleep. He stood and walked to her, looked into the glass dollhouse. He’d been fighting with himself all night. He wanted to talk to Morte, but he was still so upset at how he’d been treated.
The car doors slammed again, engines revved. Must have been a wrong address.
He kept telling himself that, holding his arms while he shook.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
It was late, past 2:00 in the morning, when Baldwin heard a knock on the door, looked up to see Memphis standing in his office. They’d arrived in Quantico at midnight, and Baldwin had arranged for a room for Memphis in one of the dorms.
“You should be sleeping,” he said. “We have a long day ahead of us.”
�
�I could say the same of you. I was sleeping, but my body clock thinks it’s morning, so here I am. I don’t suppose you have any real tea, by any chance? Maybe a drop of something stronger?”
Baldwin scrubbed his fingers through his hair. “Yes, I do. I’ll go get it, and then I’ll fill you in on what we’ve got.”
Baldwin took the hallway down to the row of cubicles that housed his team. He was technically the unit chief, though he transitioned between the Nashville Field Office and the Behavioral Analysis Unit in Quantico. There were three Behavioral Analysis Units in the Behavioral Science Unit—Unit One—Terrorism and Threat Assessments, Unit Two—Crimes Against Adults and Unit Three—Crimes Against Children. He managed BAU Two—had been the unit chief for four years. He had his fingers in BAU One as well, though his involvement was tertiary and very, very quiet. Terrorism was the number-one priority of the Bureau, had been since the evolution of their purpose after 9/11. It played well for him—in his other persona, Baldwin profiled assassins for the CIA in a covert operation known as the Angelmakers. That part of his life had been thankfully lacking in necessary endeavors lately.
He had forewarned his BAU team that they’d be needed to help finalize the profile for the Metropolitan police. He’d chosen two excellent lead profilers for this assignment—Charlaine Shultz, a former Little Rock homicide detective with a boisterous laugh and a deadly acumen for murder, and Dr. Wills Appleby, a psychiatrist turned profiler Baldwin did his residency with. They’d met the first day of classes at Johns Hopkins, spent four years grinding through med school together, then a completely grueling psychiatric residency.
When they’d finished up, Baldwin had gone on to George Washington University to get his law degree, thinking he’d be a medical ethicist. Instead, he met Garrett Woods. Garrett recognized the potential in him immediately, potential Baldwin didn’t know existed. He snatched him up for the FBI, and Baldwin hadn’t looked back. He was a Supervisory Special Agent now, and Garrett was running all of the Behavioral Science Unit.
Lieutenant Taylor Jackson Collection, Volume 2 Page 21
