“Good luck,” she said, sincerely. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
*
Taylor quit the morgue, casually looking for the watchers Price was supposed to have put on her tail, hoping for one that felt out of place. He’d emailed her their photos so she wouldn’t mistake either of them for her target. She spied one of them, a dark shadow lingering around the corner of the building. He saluted her, then melted back into the darkness. The other was out of sight. If the Pretender saw them… No, he’d enjoy that challenge, too.
She got in the car, debating. Looked at the clock, nearly midnight. She needed to go home. They would follow. She would explain to Baldwin that she’d brought her own people on board. He wouldn’t be able to argue—she was allowing herself to be protected, after all.
The streets were practically deserted, just her and the watchers following at a discreet distance. She hopped on I-65 south to I-40 west, the Nashville skyline winking at her for the briefest of moments. She loved the city at night, its lights glowing in the deserted buildings like a sailor’s succor after months at sea. She felt a calm steal over her, peace, despite the evening’s death. Thought about the Schechter case.
The dead had no secrets once she got involved. Her job, her mission, was to ferret out the truth, find the tiniest bit of shame in a person’s background and follow that thread to its conclusion. What secret was Peter Schechter hiding? What small transgression, invisible or visible, had he witnessed or caused that ended in his death?
The pentacle—she couldn’t help but feel that was a message, not a fluke. Not a joke.
She flipped open her phone and dialed a number she’d recently committed to heart. Only felt a moment’s silliness for calling the witch—she’d yet to be wrong about things.
After a few moments, a woman’s soft voice answered the phone.
“How are you, Taylor?”
“Ariadne. I’m good. You?”
The question was a bit loaded. Ariadne carried a child, one conceived in violence. Taylor felt the full weight of responsibility, but Ariadne reassured her.
“The Goddess’s blessings are upon me, as always. We’re doing very well. I’m so glad you found your sergeant. I told you he’d be all right. How are you coping?”
Taylor envisioned the woman, curled on a sofa in front of the crackling fire, her small pale feet tucked beneath her, long, luxurious black hair swirling around her body like a cloak. She wished she felt the kind of peace Ariadne seemed to embody.
“I’m happy he’s going to be okay. As for me, well, I’m as fine as I can be, considering,” Taylor answered. At least she had been honest. “Listen, we found the boy that’s been missing since Halloween.”
“He’s dead,” Ariadne said, a statement, not a question. Ariadne always knew things.
“Yes. There was a pentacle spray-painted on a tree close to where we found the body.”
“Were there any markings on the body?”
“None that we saw. I don’t think it’s related, but I could be wrong.”
“Don’t second-guess yourself, Taylor. Your instincts are always right.”
“You know about the man who has been stalking me. I’m wondering if this was him, trying to draw me out.”
“You want to be drawn out, though.”
Shit. Maybe this hadn’t been the best idea. “Ariadne, I just need to know if this boy is connected to the earlier case.”
“Give me a minute.”
There was silence, then a sigh. “I don’t believe he was a part of the Halloween massacre.”
“That’s what I thought, too. Thank you. I’ll see you soon, all right?”
“Taylor?”
“Yes?”
She could hear the hesitation in Ariadne’s voice. “Go careful. You don’t want things backfiring. Some situations are…irreversible.”
The witch was drowsing again. How she managed to read Taylor’s emotions and intentions over the phone was uncanny.
“I will. Have a good night.”
“May the blessings of Diana be upon you, sister.”
Taylor glanced at the chilly moon and smiled, then hung up, pushed Ariadne’s warning from her mind and thought about the timing of Peter Schechter’s murder again.
He’d been missing since Friday. Five days. Plenty of time for the Pretender to swing through town and grab him. Maybe he had someone do it for him, like Nags Head. Maybe she’d been hanging around Baldwin for too long, seen too many oddities in her own cases, but the idea of a gang of killers executing a game was all too real to her.
This could easily be connected to the Pretender. She was a cop, she didn’t believe in coincidence. A pentacle painted on a tree near the dead boy, not exactly the same, but similar. She had to throw that thought into the mix. The Pretender was a copycat, after all. It was entirely possible that he was simply poking at her, yet again.
But when he mimicked, it was down to the most minute details. This could be a random murder, completely unrelated to either of the cases.
Poor Peter Schechter. Whatever his story, he didn’t deserve this.
She was already at her exit. She glided down the silent ramp, suddenly anxious to get home. Baldwin would help chase away the lingering darkness. The streets were quiet in the bitter night air, so it only took her ten minutes.
The lights were burning brightly when she pulled into the drive. She smiled—of course he hadn’t gone to bed. She was glad. In the midst of all this turmoil, she needed her anchor. Baldwin was her very heart.
He was waiting for her in the kitchen, a huge grin plastered on his face. He swept her into a hug.
“Mmm, I’m glad you’re home.”
“Me, too.”
“I made you some soup. Chicken noodle.” He played with her hair, still smiling widely.
“I can smell it. Are you anticipating me getting sick sometime soon?”
“Of course not. Just helping you keep your resistance up.” He kissed her, softly at first, then with a building passion.
This, this was heaven. Coming home to the man she loved, the warm scents of food and lingering smoke from the fire. Could she give all of this up if she were caught? Shh, she told her mind. Stop thinking about it.
She returned the kiss, wrapped her arms around Baldwin’s strong body. She loved that he was taller than her, they fit together so perfectly. Just as she started thinking less of the warm soup and more of their warm bed, he broke away.
“Not just yet,” he said.
“Damn.” She ran her hands through his hair. “I was thinking we might…”
“Oh, and we will. But I have something really awesome to tell you first.”
“What?”
“Come sit down.”
He led her to the table, then went back to the stove and spooned out the soup. He crossed the kitchen carefully and set the full bowl on the placemat in front of her.
“Eat,” he commanded. She didn’t dare disobey. He had something up his sleeve, she could tell. She dipped her spoon in the smooth golden liquid, let the salt burst into her mouth. Oh, that was so good.
After several mouthfuls, she set the spoon down. “Okay. Tell me. You look like a little boy at his birthday party, about to dive into the cake.”
Baldwin took a deep breath and grinned. “I know who he is.”
“You know who who is?”
As she said it, she realized. Felt her breath catch in her throat.
Baldwin handed her his notes.
She abandoned the soup.
NOVEMBER 7
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
“Tell me again.”
The Federal Express truck had arrived at 7:30 a.m. with the package from Wendy Heinz, and they’d gotten on the road fifteen minutes later. They were due in to Forest City at 2:00 p.m. local time, and Baldwin was pretty sure they could shave a good twenty minutes off that if they could keep up the pace. As he drove, Taylor had read him the entire contents of the file Wendy had sent. They were just outside of Kno
xville, the sky a stormy gray. Rain was chasing them westward, rain that would turn to overnight snow in the North Carolina mountains. The Blue Ridge, so aptly named, was putting on a show for them, the cobalt horizons murky and amorphous.
Taylor went back to the beginning of the file and started over.
“Ewan was born in 1980, the second of three boys. Mother was Elizabeth, known as Betty, father was Roger. Betty was a native of Forest City. Her dad, Edward Biggs, owned a barbecue joint that passed into her ownership when he died. She was nineteen at the time. She met Roger Copeland in 1977, when he was a successful third basemen for the Richmond Braves, that’s the farm team for Atlanta. They got married, had their first child, a boy named Edward, named after her father, in 1978. They had Ewan in 1980 and Errol in 1982. You know, that’s strange. There’s nothing in here about the youngest child after the trial. I wonder where he is?”
“We’ll have to ask around. I’m sure someone will know what happened to him.”
“This just gives me the willies. He belongs to someone, Baldwin. He has a past, a life.”
“Of course he does. They all do, honey. We only find out about them once that background has turned into a seething mass of hatred, and they lash out in desperation, or desire. But they all come from somewhere. Whether they’re a product of their upbringing or they’re born with it, they were, at some point, innocent.”
She shook her head, ponytail swinging around her neck, and looked out the window. “Ewan Copeland was never an innocent.”
Baldwin didn’t disagree, but he didn’t feel the need to verbalize that. Nature versus nurture: the greatest debate. If Ewan had been born to a mother who hadn’t been sick, would he have turned into a normal, healthy man? Maybe played ball like his dad?
Taylor had grown quiet. He reached over and touched her hand. “Penny for your thoughts?”
“They don’t come that cheap,” she replied, but tossed him a smile.
“Seriously, what are you thinking?”
“I don’t need your FBI guys, okay? I hired a couple of Price’s men. They’re going to stick to me like glue. Are sticking to me like glue.”
Damn woman. He figured as much. The blue sedan four cars back had been on them since Nashville. Not bothering to hide themselves, either. She knew he wouldn’t fight her, he trusted Price as much as any of his own people. Devious, manipulative…
“Really. Well, thank you for sharing that.”
“No fight?”
“No fight.”
“Wow. Okay then. Now I’m wondering when you’re planning on telling me what happened up in Quantico.”
“I told you—”
“I know, Baldwin.”
He steered the car around a particularly steep curve, gripping the steering wheel tightly. The gray leather was sure to have handprints denting it after this conversation.
Sarah McLachlan came on the radio, singing “Angel.” Fitting for their excursion, he thought. This was their second chance, their big break. The lead that could blow the case of the Pretender wide-open.
“You know what, exactly?” he finally said carefully.
Taylor snapped the radio off. “Oh, please. Quit playing games with me. I saw the note from the graphologist. Would you care to tell me why I have to find out you’ve been suspended from a total stranger? And why total strangers know something about you that I don’t?”
He breathed a huge internal sigh of relief. The suspension was something he could manage to explain. Charlotte, the boy—he just wasn’t ready.
“I’m not keeping it from you. I just didn’t want to burden you. You’ve got too much on your plate already. It will blow over. Garrett is already working to get me reinstated.”
“Pray tell what exactly did you do to get yourself suspended? You’re their golden boy.”
“Ha. If only. You’re not mad?”
“I’m just a little surprised you didn’t feel like you could trust me with this.”
That wasn’t a no. He glanced over at her. She was staring at him with that forthright look in her mismatched gray eyes, genuinely confused, and genuinely hurt. She’d sat on that annoyance for three hours; he felt terrible. He should have told her in the first place. He told her that.
“Taylor, I trust you with my life. You know that. This suspension, it’s a temporary thing. A power play. There’s a special agent named Tucker who has it in for me. It’s kind of a long story.”
She gestured to the open road in front of them. “I have nothing but time.”
It had been horrible having to relive the deaths of his team in front of an adversary at his hearing. To explain it to the woman he loved… He really wasn’t prepared, but he couldn’t put this off any longer. His life with Taylor was too important, and he’d been stupid to wait at all. She was a tough woman, she could easily handle the truth. Most of it.
So he told her. He explained the Harold Arlen case in detail. How Arlen had duped them all with a tunnel in his basement, how the man had joined forces with a fellow pedophile and created a game of hide-and seek with the bodies of little girls. How Charlotte Douglas had decided to plant evidence, told Baldwin her plan, and how he foolishly hadn’t told anyone the truth. How that omission got him dragged in front of the disciplinary hearing, six years after the fact.
Taylor listened attentively, not asking questions, just letting him unload. She didn’t comment when his voice thickened as he described the shooting. In the end, three good agents were dead, and so was Harold Arlen. His seventh young victim had survived. Small consolation to Baldwin, but some consolation nonetheless.
He’d never told her the whole story before. She knew bits and pieces, but he’d always held back the deepest part of the truth, that if he’d been paying more attention, no one would have had to die that awful day. And the role Charlotte played.
She was silent for a moment, then reached over and grasped his hand. She didn’t say anything, didn’t need to. He felt the forgiveness flowing through their touch, and felt wretched. He didn’t deserve her forgiveness. Not until all the truth was out. All the cards on the table.
After a few minutes, she spoke. “It wasn’t your fault. You know that. So what else is there, honey? I know you well enough to feel that you’re holding back from me. Just tell me. You can tell me anything, and I’ll always love you. Always.”
She knew him too well. Maybe she was right. Maybe it was time to come clean. He formed the words in his head, trying them on for size. I have a son. And Charlotte was his mother. He took a breath. Started to tell her. He truly did. But his phone began to ring, and the moment was lost.
“Hold that thought,” he said, then answered the phone with a curt, “Yes.”
“Dr. Baldwin? This is Buddy Morgan. I’m the chief of police down here in Forest City. I understand you’re on your way to see me.”
“Hi, Chief Morgan. It’s good to hear from you. We have cell service again, I think we’re actually getting close. We should be in by two o’clock.”
“Have you eaten?”
Baldwin laughed. “Honestly, no. We took off like bats out of hell pretty early this morning.”
“Meet me at Smith’s Drugs, then. My treat. We can eat and talk. I’ll fill you in on the Copelands. It’s a long story. I hope you’ve got some time.”
“We do. I made a reservation at the Holiday Inn there—we’ll be spending the night.”
“Good. I’ll see you shortly then.”
He hung up.
“Chief of police is treating us to lunch. At a drugstore, no less.”
“Small towns,” Taylor said.
“Taylor, I—”
“It’s okay. We have a six-hour drive back. You can tell me the rest on the way home.”
*
Neither one of their phones had been able to get a signal for the second half of the drive. The cellular service was terrible in the North Carolina mountains at the state border. Service restored, both of their phones were beeping with missed calls. They ea
ch busied themselves with their respective duties, and Baldwin couldn’t help but feel relieved. He’d earned a momentary reprieve, but the truth was coming out, whether he wanted it to or not.
Forgiveness was a tenuous thing. He hoped, for both their sakes, that Taylor had the ability to grant it.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
The outer reaches of Forest City had succumbed to the homogenization of America. The highway bypass into town was littered with chain restaurants and hardware supercenters, the concrete strip malls colonized by the everystore mentality that permeated all other mid-to large-size towns off just about every highway. The ultimate in impersonal convenience.
Once they got into the heart of the city, things changed dramatically. For the better, in Taylor’s opinion. She was surprised to see a traditional Main Street replete with mom-and-pop shops, an old movie theater, the drugstore Buddy Morgan had mentioned, with what looked to be a full restaurant lunch counter, and a variety of specialty stores, including a promising-looking bookstore nestled next to the drugstore, Fireside Books and Gifts.
Baldwin drove slowly, and Taylor stared up the treelined median, a small smile playing on her lips.
“What are you looking at?” Baldwin asked.
“I’m waiting for George Bailey to come running down the street.”
Baldwin did a double take, then laughed. “God, Taylor, you’ve nailed it. This looks exactly like Bedford Falls.”
“It does, doesn’t it?”
“Too bad that whole movie set was just a creation. The idyllic town square… I always thought it would be fun to live in a small town. Have a routine, eat at the diner every morning, walk everywhere, wave hello to the people who’ve known you your whole life.”
She shook her head.
“Oh, no, not me. I’d go mad with that level of accountability. Nashville is plenty small. Besides, everyone already knows my business.”
Lieutenant Taylor Jackson Collection, Volume 2 Page 79
