Ember slipped through the loose boards on the edge of the fort. Raven and Fane followed her in.
Though light shimmered above them, the inside of the structure was dark, cool. Raven felt Fane shiver next to him, drew her close for a moment to warm her. The minute he let his mind move toward Fane, the connection with Ember was broken. He heard movement in the black, then the world exploded into a million colors. He fell to the ground, hands on his crotch.
He heard a low moaning, didn’t realize it was coming from his own throat. Pressure at his back now, Fane hissing like a furious cat.
“Christ, Ember. Did you really need to knee him in the balls? Grow up, why don’t you? Hurting Raven isn’t going to fix the situation. You’ve been all Gothier-than-thou the past couple of weeks anyway. What’s your fucking problem?”
She knelt next to Raven, pulled his head into her lap. Ember appeared in the edge of his peripheral vision, swimming in and out of focus. She’d dropped her shield, was sending off powerful negativity, sharp as knives.
Fane brushed a lock of black hair off Raven’s forehead. “It wasn’t Raven’s fault. Your stupid brother couldn’t keep his hands off perfect little Mandy. Xander went over there to fuck her. How were we supposed to know she’d share her stash with him? I thought you said he didn’t do X.”
Ember came right to Fane’s face, words biting through her gritted teeth. “He doesn’t. And that’s not what happened—you know it isn’t. He was there when you arrived, and you forced him. You killed him. And then you cut him up like all the rest. How could you? How could you? He’s my brother! And you two are out celebrating. I can’t believe you’d do this to me. To us!”
Raven was still nonsensical. Damn, that hurt. Fane shifted him to the right, and some of the pressure started to leak away.
“Ember, you have to get a grip. Right now. Where’s Thorn?”
The smaller girl shuffled her feet uncertainly. “I have no idea.”
“What do you mean, you have no idea?”
“He was supposed to sneak into my house. My parents took off and went to Mandy’s when they heard. I called him and he never answered.”
Raven was finally starting to feel better. At least, he didn’t think he was going to throw up anymore. He struggled into a sitting position, leaning on Fane for support. His voice was laced with pain, but the authority was there.
“Ember. How did you get downtown if Thorn didn’t bring you?”
“I took the bus. There were plenty of people headed down—I blended right in.”
“Where are your parents now?”
“I don’t know. I split when they did.”
“We need to get you home. They’re going to notice you’re gone and get worried. You weren’t supposed to leave until they went to sleep.”
“In case you forgot, you murdered my brother tonight, you stupid prick. I doubt they’re going to be doing much sleeping. I fixed my bed, my room. They won’t look. They never do.”
“You need to go home.”
“Fuck that, Raven. I don’t have to do everything you command. I want to know why you included Xander in your plan.”
Raven’s fury started to build in turn. He forgot the soreness in his groin, stood so he towered over Ember. He grabbed her by the upper shoulders and gave her a powerful shake, the anger boiling in his gut. “I told you. I had no control over that. He’s the one that was there. He’s the one who interjected himself into the plan. Get off my back, now, or there will be consequences. Do you understand?”
She didn’t respond.
“Do you understand?” he roared.
Ember was silent for a moment, pulled away from his grasp. He let her go. She turned her back. He could see her breathing deeply, felt a calm steal over them. Good. He had her back. Losing control of his coven could be disastrous, especially now.
He turned to Fane, seeking her eyes in the gloom. She glowed in the darkness, and he saw her teeth flash in a smile. He answered with his own, reset his center and turned back to Ember.
“Ember, I’m sorry. I didn’t know you would be this upset. It was unavoidable. And we need to go now, before someone hears us fighting.”
Ember’s shoulders began to shake. She whirled back around and snarled at Raven, sharp little teeth bared.
“I don’t believe you. I think you murdered Xander because you wanted to, not by accident. Do you hear me, you freak? I think you did it on purpose. And I won’t let you get away with it, Raven. I break with you and Fane. I break with you. I break with you.”
She darted out into the night, her sobs trailing behind her.
WANING CRESCENT MOON
TWENTY-FIVE PERCENT OF FULL
HALLOWMAS
(All Saints’ Day)
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Quantico, Virginia
November 1
7:00 a.m.
“Hey, Reever, it’s Baldwin. Again. I’m here waiting for you. Where are you, buddy? Don’t really want to go into this hearing without you. Call me, okay?”
Baldwin hung up and stashed his phone in his pocket. He should have just defended himself. He was licensed to practice in Virginia, had passed the bar there years ago. He’d gotten his J.D. at George Washington. Of course, that’s what led him directly to the FBI, and Garrett Woods. Maybe if he hadn’t wanted to be a medical ethicist, he wouldn’t be in this situation now.
He could call Taylor. She’d certainly be sympathetic, take his mind off the situation. But she was knee-deep in her own murder investigation. He decided not to bother her. Too many bad memories were going to get dredged up—just having Taylor in his head would sully her.
How did it all end up here? All the years he spent working so hard to protect the innocent, to help his fellow law enforcement officers, to make a name in the FBI, to recover from his own personal trauma…was it all going to be for naught? Would he be summarily thrown out of his position at the FBI? It would be ironic, considering how reluctant he’d been to return to the unit full-time.
Baldwin began to pace, wondering where in the hell his lawyer was. He looked at his watch. The hearing was supposed to start in less than five minutes, and Reever still hadn’t shown. He flipped open his phone to call, again, but heard a flurry in the hallway. Reginald Harold Beauchamp, known as Reever to his friends and clients, came bustling around the corner.
“Sorry, sorry, sorry. The third kid barfed on me as I was kissing her goodbye. I had to change, then I got stuck behind a tractor, and then I got waylaid by a train. This has not been my morning. Sorry.”
He skidded to a halt and stuck out his hand.
“How ya doing, Baldwin?”
“Better, now that you’re finally here. I thought I was going to have to dust off my license.”
“Ha-ha. Like that would ever happen. I wouldn’t desert you in your hour of need.” Reever tugged his arm, pulled him away from the wall. They walked a few steps together, heads bent conspiratorially. Baldwin smelled a variety of odors coming off of his lawyer, baby shit mingled with a subtle splash of cologne, sweat and an underlying note of sour milk. Great. That was going to be fun to sit next to all day.
“I’ve seen the charges, and it’s gonna be fine.”
“So says you. I’m screwed, aren’t I?” Baldwin asked.
Reever’s brown eyes were full of concern. “Listen, Doc, I promise you, this is all just a formality. There’s no real danger to your career. They’re going to make you squirm, and make you admit how sorry you are. Probably throw a suspension at you, something temporary. Then we’ll all go back to work happy. Okay? In and out, lickety-split.” He snapped his fingers.
“Yeah. Got it,” Baldwin said, not believing a word. Reever was infamous for his pep talks, but the FBI didn’t convene disciplinary hearings for their good health.
Baldwin heard shuffling inside the corridor, and a door opened. A man he didn’t recognize said, “We’re ready for you, Dr. Baldwin.”
Reever clapped him on the back. “Let’s d
o it.”
He hid an overwhelming sigh, straightened his back and, eyes ahead, marched into the room. His heart was pounding harder than it should. Stop it, Baldwin. You knew this would come up sooner or later. There’s nothing to hide. You didn’t do anything wrong. Not completely wrong, at least.
The room they entered was empty, devoid of personality, decorated only with FBI and American flags on golden stands, the oversize FBI seal framing the back wall, and a large picture of the president next to a photograph of the director himself. There was a wooden dais—similar to a small-scale Senate hearing room, all American oak-and-brass fixtures. Three men were waiting for them, their faces stern and forbidding, facing a table with two microphones. A clerk sat to one side, fingers poised over a stenotype machine. Just a subtle reminder that this hearing was on the record—the transcripts would be in his personnel jacket for life.
He got settled at the table, Reever at his side, pulling out pads of paper for them both, pens, basically making a show of it. Baldwin didn’t know whether to laugh or scream. Reever was one of the best counsels in the FBI, and a good friend. Baldwin was very happy to have him on his side, helping him through this hearing. The fumbling around was a ploy, something to disarm the men sitting in judgment upon them. They all knew the farce for what it was. After an interminable few minutes, Reever nodded toward the dais.
“We’re ready,” he said, his dirty-blond hair falling into his eyes. He shoved it back and grinned.
“At last.” The man at the center of the dais, Supervisory Special Agent Perry Tucker, motioned to the clerk, who began typing.
“Dr. Baldwin, please raise your right hand. Do you swear that your forthcoming testimony will be the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth?”
“Yes, I do.” Baldwin didn’t shift, kept his eyes focused straight ahead. The disciplinary procedures at the FBI had been recently scrutinized and revamped to make sure the higher-level executives and the lower-level workers all got a fair shake. Which meant your peers decided your fate, and the executives and SES-level agents were taking it on the nose in an attempt to show how impartial everything was.
All employees of the FBI, agents at every level, were required to serve their time on the disciplinary committee in six-month shifts. Baldwin had sat on the board just last year, and he knew this was far beyond a fact-finding mission. The committee had the power to chastise, censure and otherwise make an agent’s life miserable, but it took seriously egregious actions to be stripped. He hadn’t done anything that warranted losing his status as an agent, not yet. Not that they knew about, at least.
Regardless, the pallor of suspicion hung expectantly in the room. It was going to be a rough couple of days.
Tucker’s chair squeaked in protest as he leaned back and rocked, staring Baldwin down. After a few moments of silence, he leaned forward, steepled his fingers against his chin and looked over his tortoiseshell reading glasses like a principal disappointed with the school quarterback.
“As you are aware, we are here to determine the truth in the matter of U.S. versus Harold Arlen. As a result of new information that has come to our attention, there have been allegations of wrongdoing specific to your involvement in this case. The charges filed include falsifying evidence, neglect, and involuntary manslaughter, conduct unbecoming an agent with the Federal Bureau of Investigation and fraternization with a subordinate. The charges have been leveled by former Special Agent Charlotte Douglas, who is sadly not with us to lay claim to her indictment. Her computer, as you know, has been the source of a great deal of information on the Arlen case. The accusations of misconduct were included in her copious notes.
“The main focus of our hearing today is to determine your culpability in the deaths of Agents Caleb Geroux, Jessamine Sparrow and Olen Butler. According to the files, Agent Douglas made it clear that their deaths were the direct result of your actions during the Arlen case. The panel takes these charges very seriously.”
Baldwin was about to say something, anything, to defend himself, but Reever came to life. “We take these accusations very seriously, as well. We all know what kind of agent Charlotte Douglas was, sir. She was a liar on her best days, and made a mockery of this entire department. We can’t trust that anything she claims has any validity. And may I say, for the record, that any charges of wrongdoing against my client are ridiculous. Dr. Baldwin is one of the most decorated agents in the Bureau. His character is above reproach, and we have a multitude of witnesses willing to testify on his behalf.”
Tucker harrumphed, and the other two judges shifted in their chairs. Everyone knew that this was highly unusual. Charlotte Douglas wasn’t exactly a trustworthy source. Baldwin felt some semblance of calm steal into him; while Tucker looked hell-bent on his destruction, the other two were obviously uncomfortable. A dead agent didn’t make a very good witness, especially when her record was as sullied as Special Agent Douglas’s.
“Be that as it may, we have to look at the entire case. Charges of this magnitude cannot go without scrutiny.” He shuffled his papers. “Dr. Baldwin. Since this matter is one of the highest delicacy, I think it would be best for you to start at the beginning, and walk us through the details of the case. Let me caution you—spare nothing. We will know if you’re obfuscating. If you’d please start by answering this question. What exactly was your relationship with Dr. Douglas?”
Baldwin couldn’t help himself, his jaw clenched and his fists tightened. Just the mention of Charlotte could do that to him. Lying, conniving bitch that she was, this last echo from the grave was the ultimate slap in the face.
He cleared his throat, and glanced at his notes. Not for the first time, he was glad of his attentiveness to detail.
“We were…close.”
There weren’t many shocked faces on the panel—this wasn’t the first time two agents had gotten together.
The inquisitor raised an eyebrow, made a note on the sheet in front of him and continued.
“‘Close.’ Could you expand on that, please?”
Reever nodded at Baldwin, his head moving almost imperceptibly.
Expand on that. Sure he could. He could give them gritty details all day long, but he wouldn’t. Instead, he referred to his notes, straightened his shoulders and cleared his throat.
“It started on June 14, 2004. The day the fifth body was found.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Nashville, Tennessee
November 1
7:00 a.m.
Dawn had passed and Taylor’s stomach was growling viciously before she’d finished taking statements from all the victims’ families. She was exhausted, and most of her questions remained unanswered. The facts were straightforward—someone had slipped into the home of each victim and marked their flesh. Each victim had ingested some sort of poison.
The one exception was Brandon Scott.
She and McKenzie were loading up on coffee at the Starbucks on West End. There was no sense in sleeping. Taylor knew Sam was going to be at it bright and early—she had seven autopsies today, and her team had worked through the night. So far the last victim, Brittany Carson, had been holding her own, though she was in a deep coma.
Tim Davis had stayed up all night running tests on the Ecstasy tablets Theo Howell had provided them. Theo’s theory was wrong—the drugs he had collected weren’t laced. Which meant the victims weren’t random, proving Taylor’s initial theory.
Preliminary toxicology reports showed a mishmash of chemical components: Ecstasy combined with high doses of PMA, codeine, Ritalin and Valium. Apart, none of the drugs were immediately fatal. Together, the combination was overwhelmingly deadly. There were many more tests to be run, and the results combined with autopsy would help define exactly what effect the drugs had on the children’s systems.
Lincoln had been running through video feeds, looking for familiar or repeat faces. He had one, and he was waiting at the CJC for Taylor to look it over.
Marcus and McKenzie had taken st
atements from every kid at the party, all of whom had been honest and open about the events of the afternoon. They’d had the fear of God put into them, without a doubt. They weren’t aware that the pills they had turned over to Theo Howell weren’t deadly. As far as they knew, if they hadn’t checked their text messages, had turned off their phones, gone to a movie, anything—any little tiny thing—might have sent them to their deaths. Mortality weighed heavily on the young—the entire school was deep in mourning. Worry, relief and extreme pain had caused all of them to come together. Taylor could only hope they’d had their fill of messing around with drugs.
Hillsboro High School was expecting them at 10:00 a.m. to discuss possible suspects among the students. Taylor had talked to the principal at three in the morning—she had grief counselors ready to be unleashed on the school. There was talk of canceling classes on Monday, but Taylor had advised against it. Normalcy was best. Plus, she would be able to walk the halls, talk to some other people, see if they could find out who this kid dealer might be, assuming he really was a Hillsboro student. No one at the party last night knew his real name.
Taylor needed a few minutes to regroup. She drank deeply from her triple-shot latte, hoping for strength from the meager caffeine the espresso beans provided. She probably should have gone with black coffee, but her stomach wouldn’t stand for that. She nibbled on a piece of lemon pound cake, realized she hadn’t eaten the evening before. She was suddenly ravenously hungry and ate the rest of the cake in three bites.
McKenzie joined her, crashing in the chair next to hers. He had dark circles under his eyes, his sandy hair in total disarray. She could only imagine what she looked like.
“We’ve made serious progress, you know that,” McKenzie said.
“I do. Still, we need a quick solve on this. Tell me what else you’re thinking about this mysterious drug dealer before we jump back into the fray.”
“Well, I hardly think a fourteen-year-old is running a drug cartel through Nashville. You should put the word out through the Specialized Investigative Unit, see who’s selling to him. He’s being run by someone on the outside.”
Lieutenant Taylor Jackson Collection, Volume 2 Page 42
