“Yes, I am. Listen, you may have some preconceived notions about Harry, but he is a good man. He loved Evie like she was his own daughter. When she died…” His voice broke, and he cleared his throat viciously. “When she died, he cried for days. He was right there the whole time, helping us. I know Harry. He could never hurt Evie. Or anyone else, for that matter.”
Sparrow had about enough at this point, and jumped into the interview. “You didn’t find it at all alarming that a grown man with a history of sexual deviance was taking such an interest in your underage daughter?”
“Sparrow,” Baldwin said in an undertone.
Kilmeade waved Baldwin’s warning away. “No, that’s fine. I’m sure to an outsider this would look very strange indeed. But Harry is changed. He’d done some stupid, awful things in the past, but he really was changed by life in prison. He would never do anything, anything, that might jeopardize his freedom. I’m not an idiot. I’m a trained professional. My job is to help people like him. If I thought he was a threat, I’d have tossed him out on his ear. Like I said, he was never alone with Evie. Either her mother or I, or one of her brothers, was always in attendance.”
“Ralph?” Mrs. Kilmeade had been silent up to now, but her eyes were rimmed in red from the pressure of the tears she was holding back.
“Yes, honey?”
“May I be excused? I’d like to go lie down for a few moments.”
“Goodness, my dear, of course. I’ll come to you in a moment. I’m just going to see the agents out. We’re finished here, correct?”
There was a note of finality to the question. They were done, whether Baldwin wanted to be finished or not.
Baldwin nodded. Everyone hastened to their feet as Mrs. Kilmeade exited the room. Sparrow met Baldwin’s eyes, and he felt the message being sent. There was something very wrong with this picture. He couldn’t agree more.
Regardless, Kilmeade had said all he was willing to on the subject. They had what they needed anyway. Little Evie’s death could certainly be interpreted as a stressor for Arlen.
At the door, Kilmeade left them with a final thought.
“I’d appreciate it if any future conversations be conducted at my office. My wife is having a difficult time with the pregnancy, you see, and with all the hubbub still lingering over Evie’s death, it’s been terrible for her. You understand.” He shook their hands and shut the door behind them softly, leaving Baldwin and Sparrow on the porch, staring across the street.
What sort of monster lived behind those four walls?
And what kind of father let his dying daughter play with a sex offender?
*
Charlotte
It was late. Charlotte was hungry and thirsty, but she stayed rooted in her chair at her desk. She chewed on the end of a pen, thinking hard. She agreed with Baldwin that Harold Arlen was their suspect. The problem was, they still had exactly zero proof. Where was the evidence? And where was that warrant they needed so desperately? Maybe she’d have to take a trip down to the courthouse later, lean on some doors. See if that shook things loose. She hated having to take matters into her own hands, but they needed to get this case wrapped up. Child murderers gave her the creeps. She didn’t know how Baldwin could stand it.
Speak of the devil. Charlotte saw Baldwin approaching and felt her pulse race. She was always struck by his looks; he epitomized the very being of tall, dark and handsome. Now that she was in, she didn’t plan on letting go anytime soon. He was the perfect catch, the perfect man. Attentive and loving in bed, willing to take a few risks and not afraid to show his own feelings. He didn’t even snore. What a combination.
He was getting attached. She could feel that. Every look, every touch, screamed, you’re mine, woman. It made her feel all warm inside. She had to admit, she’d had him pegged from day one. He was a natural savior, a white knight, the kind of man who hated to see a woman cry, who was instantly drawn to fragility. She’d have to keep it up just a bit longer, then he’d be on the hook and she’d be set.
She hadn’t given a great deal of thought to settling down with one man, or one woman, for that matter, until recently. It seemed…an interesting concept. One person, for a lifetime. She wondered how long it would really last.
She may have to switch departments when they got married, but that was fine. She could easily lead in other areas. That might not be necessary after all: Baldwin was sure to be promoted out of the BAU—he was too good at his job, too adept, too thorough. He had Director written all over him. Oh, the power he would have. And she’d be at his side, the perfect helpmeet.
They would have to get a new place—his apartment wasn’t anything to write home about. There were plenty of lovely suburbs in the area north of Richmond, providing for a short commute. And they’d certainly need a place in D.C., preferably in Georgetown, so she could rub elbows with the real money. There was power in D.C., that’s what attracted her to the feds in the first place.
Oh, it was so nice to be with him at last. She’d been so careful, so subtle. And he’d always seemed so sad. Now, despite the horrific case they were working, he seemed almost chipper. Downright happy.
When he entered her office, Baldwin gave her a heart-stopping grin.
“Guess what we have?” he said.
“Herpes?”
He stopped in his tracks, eyebrows creasing. “What?”
“I’m kidding, silly. What do we have?”
“Oh. God, Charlotte, that’s not remotely funny. Goldman just called. They got the warrant for Arlen’s place signed five minutes ago. The Kilmeades admitted that Arlen had regular contact with their daughter. That’s a probation violation, which is enough for the judge. We’re in.”
WANING CRESCENT MOON
TWENTY PERCENT OF FULL
FEAST OF ODIN
(ALL SOULS’ DAY)
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Nashville
Midnight
Taylor was in bed, watching a replay of the late local news. She was fighting sleep, but would succumb at any minute. She’d been awake for thirty-six hours, and even by her insomniac standards, it was time for a rest.
Nashville would never get used to news about dead teenagers. Especially around the holidays and graduation, the nightly news brought stories packed with grief and remorse. Brave girls fighting meningitis. Silly young boys who drank to excess then wrapped their cars around trees. Cheerleaders text messaging their football-hero boyfriends and crashing into oncoming tractor-trailers.
But Nashville had never seen coverage of a tragedy of this magnitude. It was made worse by the extended horrors—nearly two days into the news cycle, when the gaping holes in the collective hearts were beginning to clot and crust, the sweet young face of Brittany Carson, smiling to the masses through the television screen, ripped them open all over again.
Her death had first been reported in a breaking news alert by a teary-eyed rookie reporter, one too young to have hardened to the nearly daily depictions of death and violence that roamed Nashville’s streets. On the 10:00 p.m. news, Brittany’s organ donation was the lead story—some vulture inside the hospital reported that she’d signed a donor registration card during a school campaign and the media seized upon it, getting a confirmation quote from her mother, Elissa, still dressed in the red blouse streaked with her daughter’s blood.
She wasn’t the only one; the entire city had been holding out hope that one of their children would make it through this tragedy alive. Sons and daughters, brothers, sisters, couples, loners, all marked for death. There seemed to be no real rhyme or reason to the victimology, not yet. They had nothing concrete, nothing except the knowledge that a teenage boy gave a teenage girl a pill laced with poison designed to kill her, then masturbated while he watched her die.
Taylor sighed, rolled onto her back to stare at the ceiling.
The images on the screen had been littered with smiling faces, full of hope. It was near impossible to imagine those same boys and girls lying on st
ainless-steel trays at the medical examiner’s, brutal Y-incisions demarking their virginal flesh.
The ME’s office was overwhelmed. Parents who’d been out of town returned with the knowledge of their children’s deaths weighing heavily on their consciences, needed to say goodbye. They had been camping in the lobby of Forensic Medical until their time came, were ushered one by one into a side room with a closed-loop video feed to identify their dead.
The first official comprehensive toxicology screens were rolling in. All eight victims had high levels of Ritalin, codeine, PMA, MDMA and Valium in their systems, disguised in the small, benign tablet of Ecstasy that Juri Edvin had sold them.
Taylor couldn’t stand it anymore. She flipped the television off. She wished Baldwin was with her, imagined him encircling her with his arms. The blank of darkness enveloped her, and she fell asleep.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Midnight
Ariadne glanced at the police car parked in front of her house and sighed. At least they’d let her come home. For a moment there she thought the lieutenant was going to arrest her and toss her in a cell overnight. Instead, she’d been escorted home and instructed not to leave until summoned. That was fine—she had plenty of work to do.
She shut off the lights in the house and prepared herself, taking a long, cleansing bath, rubbing herself with fragrant herbs, allowing her mind to be open and accepting. Once the ritual bath was complete, she went to her drawing room. She built a fire, lit the candles, opened her Book of Shadows and got down on her knees in front of her altar.
“Be true to me, as I am to you. Honor that which I have created, as I honor you. Goddess, hear my prayers. With harm to none, so shall it be.”
She stopped for a moment, let the impact of the words charge through her body. Her deity, the Goddess of the Moon, Diana, was insistent, and she answered. The pulsing energy filled Ariadne, making her gasp.
She’d been chosen early in her practice, when Diana revealed herself during a divination spell. Once Ariadne knew her path, she became stronger. Strong enough to rise to the position of High Priestess of her coven, before she left.
Sole practice worked better for her. She loved to teach the Old Ways, so she maintained a blog, with thousands of daily followers, and kept herself out of the politics that governed their kind.
But the matters of the past two days were too important for her to ignore. While the rest of her followers gossiped and prayed, she felt compelled to help.
Truth be told, the lieutenant fascinated her. She had no idea just how dominant she really was. If Ariadne could only spend more time with the woman, alleviate her skepticism. But no. Taylor Jackson was an empirical being, solid to the core with belief and justice. Even with proof of the otherworld, her mind would find a rational response.
Ariadne lit a candle, stared into the flickering flame, conjured a mental picture of Taylor Jackson. The eyes were what stood out. Athena’s eyes, the gray of a stormy afternoon, clouds roiling in the sky. The right darker than the left, the variation even more pronounced when she’d gotten angry. Her nose, slightly off, and that wide, mobile mouth. There was power, hidden behind the fringe of dark lashes. Power that the woman wasn’t aware she possessed. She was fair without being judgmental, skeptical but willing to accept help. So rare to find in any person, much less a cop.
Ariadne’s cat slid sinuously around her legs, drawn to the energy she was putting out. She picked her up, cuddled her face for a few moments, then blew out the candle. She’d invited her subconscious to bed, would let her dreams tell her what she needed to know. She’d felt dread this afternoon, strong and vivid, and was afraid of the consequences.
Still, she must try.
She must.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Midnight
Raven stood in the cemetery, Fane at his side. They’d drawn the circle, called the corners, done their spell. They had bound Ember, both from saying anything about their actions, and from leaving. It was a very powerful spell—Raven felt sure Ember would be at his house when they returned.
Raven was worried about Thorn. No word from him, and he was the lynchpin. They’d bound Thorn to them, as well.
Just to be extra safe, they’d buried their witches’ bottle in their sacred circle. They’d originally made it a year earlier, and Raven had stored it on the shelf in his closet. Full of dark essences, the special herbs—chamomile and sage, belladonna and mandrake, peppercorns and rosemary—for protection and balance; shavings of their favorite Crüxshadows CD; crushed eggshells and the discarded claw from Fane’s cat; tacks and nails, razors, the shards of a broken plate. Once the pieces were in place, they’d filled it to the brim with first-morning urine collected from both of them. Raven added in his semen, then they’d cut their arms and dribbled their blood into the bottle. Sealed tight with black wax and then electrical tape, it was an incredibly powerful deterrent of negative energy.
They’d been forced to make the bottle after one of their classmates had beaten Raven up. That threat was neutralized now, soon to be rotting in the earth, but it seemed sensible to charge the bottle and bury it, deep into the earth, far away from their daily lives, to draw any negative forces away from them.
Wiping sweat from her brow, Fane asked, “What are we going to do if it doesn’t work?”
Raven turned to her, drank in the beauty of her face, shining in a sliver of moonlight.
“That’s easy, my love. We’ll kill them.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Nashville
November 2
7:00 a.m.
Taylor woke with the sun, her mind already deep into her case. She’d dreamed of the dead last night, the ghosts of the children sitting on the edge of her bed, staring at her.
Eight dead. How would a troubled teenage boy mastermind such a crime? Her gut told her he hadn’t, that there was someone else, someone older, more devious, who was the guiding hand behind this. The vampire king, Barent? The so-called witch, Ariadne?
She wondered when the funerals would begin.
That was enough to drive her out of the bed. She showered, dressed in her most comfortable pair of Tony Lamas and Levi’s, pulled on a black turtleneck against the chill. She wound her wet hair in a bun, taking care that all the strands were caught back from her face. The nightmare washed from her body, she went downstairs to make some tea.
She sipped the fragrant Earl Grey, staring out into the backyard. It was raining; the soft pattering on the leaves of the river birch made her want to go right back upstairs and get into the bed. She poured some cereal in a bowl and ate it without tasting, peeled a banana, knowing she’d need energy to get through the day.
She had just attached her gun and badge to her belt when the phone rang.
Baldwin.
She answered with a smile, just happy for a chance to hear his voice.
He caught her up on his hearing in the most general of terms. She could tell there was something bothering him.
She filled him in on the killings in Nashville, expecting him to be more interested. She finally said, “Hey, what’s wrong? You are a million miles away.”
“No, I’m right here. I just have to tell you something. I got a call from North Carolina a few minutes ago.”
Fitz. She felt the dread course through her. She missed him so much. Not having Fitz around was like having a piece of herself missing. He’d always been the grounding force in her cases, the sounding board. He kept her focused, and stable. She wanted to throw everything to the wind, get in the car and drive to North Carolina, help search for him. God, if something had happened to him…
Baldwin was quiet, and she felt the agony begin to build, her heart racing as adrenaline showered her system, the very real sense that her blood pressure had spiked, the pit of her stomach gone to water. She heard her heartbeat in her ears, felt it in the back of her throat. She swallowed, hard.
“No. Please, no. Tell me they didn’t find his body.” Her voice sounded far a
way, not her own.
“I’m so sorry I can’t be there with you right now, Taylor. I know this is hell for you. They didn’t find his body, honey. But they did find something. It’s relatively recent, within the past week. An RV, left unattended in a campground up near Asheville. They’re tracking the rental records right now.”
She spoke between clenched teeth. “What did they find, Baldwin? Tell me.”
“They found a note. Addressed to you. It said, ‘Ayin tahat ayin.’”
“What’s that mean?”
“It’s Hebrew. It means an eye for an eye.”
“An eye for an eye? Do you think it was from the Pretender?”
“He signed it that way, yes.”
“What the hell kind of game is he playing? An eye for an eye?”
“I don’t know.” He stopped talking again. Taylor heard him swallow, followed suit herself, trying to contract the muscles of her throat to force the gorge down.
She felt a calm steal over her, that sense of disbelief, the out-of-body feeling she got when she was about to receive bad news. “What is it, Baldwin? I can tell you’re leaving something out. What else did they find in that RV?”
“Honey, it’s… They found an eye, Taylor. They found what they think is Fitz’s eye.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Once she calmed down, she’d forced Baldwin to call his friend at the NCSBI back so she could talk to him directly, gleaned every tiny detail she could from the man. They were changing the scope of the investigation, were on a search-and-rescue mission now, tracking the man they only knew as the Pretender. Hoping they could get Fitz back in one piece, instead of twenty.
We have a strong team in place, ma’am. We promise, we’ll find him, ma’am. We’re sorry we went in the wrong direction for a while there, ma’am.
She had to believe them. Baldwin assured her his friend was one of the best.
The thought of Fitz in pain, being tortured, made her want to scream, to tear her hair out. But that wasn’t going to solve anything. It wouldn’t bring him home.
Lieutenant Taylor Jackson Collection, Volume 2 Page 53
