About the Author

ALEX KAVA dedicated herself to writing in 1996, having had a successful career in PR and advertising. Praised by critics and fans alike, Alex Kava’s Maggie O’Dell novels, A Perfect Evil, Split Second, The Soul Catcher and A Necessary Evil, have all been New York Times bestsellers as well as appearing on bestseller lists around the world.

Also by Alex Kava

A NECESSARY EVIL

AT THE STROKE OF MADNESS

SPLIT SECOND

A PERFECT EVIL

The Soul Catcher

Alex Kava

www.mirabooks.co.uk

This book is dedicated to two amazing women—fellow authors, wise mentors, treasured friends.

For

Patricia

Sierra who insisted I stay grounded, focused and on track, then nagged me until I did.

And for

Laura Van Wormer

who insisted I could soar, then gave me a gentle shove in the right direction.

In a year that asked more questions than provided answers, just having the two of you believe in me has meant more than I can ever express in words.

Beware the soul catcher

Who comes in a flash of light.

Trust not a word.

Meet not his eye.

Lest he catch your soul,

Trapping it for all eternity

In his little black box.

—Anonymous

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

I’m a firm believer in sharing credit and giving thanks, so please be patient, as the list seems to grow with each book. Many thanks to all the professionals who so generously gave of their time and expertise. If I’ve gotten any of the facts wrong or have creatively manipulated a fact or two, blame me, not them. My appreciation and respect go to the following experts.

Amy Moore-Benson, my editor, my crusader, my creative partner and my common sense—you are truly the best.

Dianne Moggy for your patience, your focus and your wise counsel—you are a class act.

The entire crew at MIRA® Books for their enthusiasm and dedication, especially Tania Charzewski, Krystyna de Duleba and Craig Swinwood. Special thanks to Alex Osuszek and an incredible sales force that continues to surpass goals and records I never dreamed to be reaching, let alone surpassing. Thanks to all of you for allowing me to be part of the team and not just the product.

Megan Underwood and the experts at Goldberg McDuffie Communications, Inc., once again, for your unflinching dedication and unquestionable expertise.

Philip Spitzer, my agent—I will forever be grateful for you taking a chance on me.

Darcy Lindner, funeral director, for answering all my morbid questions with professional grace, charm, directness and enough details to give me a tremendous respect for your profession.

Omaha police officer Tony Friend for an image of cockroaches that I’m not likely to forget.

Special Agents Jeffrey John, Art Westveer and Harry Kern for taking time out of your busy schedules at Quantico’s FBI Academy to show me around and give me some idea of what it’s like to be a “real” FBI agent and profiler. And also, thanks to Special Agent Steve Frank.

Dr Gene Egnoski, psychologist and cousin extraordinaire, for taking time to help me psychoanalyse my killers and not thinking it strange to do so. And special thanks to Mary Egnoski for listening patiently and encouraging us.

John Philpin, author and retired forensic psychologist, for generously answering without hesitation every question I’ve ever thrown at you.

Beth Black and your wonderful staff for your energy, your unwavering support and your friendship.

Sandy Montang and the Omaha Chapter of Sisters in Crime for your inspiration.

And once again, to all the book buyers, booksellers and book readers for making room on your lists, your shelves and in your homes for a new voice.

Special thanks to all my friends and family for their love and support, especially the following:

Patti El-Kachouti, Jeanie Shoemaker Mezger and John Mezger, LaDonna Tworek, Kenny and Connie Kava, Nicole Friend, Annie Belatti, Ellen Jacobs, Natalie Cummings and Lilyan Wilder for sticking by me during the dark days of this past year as well as celebrating the bright ones.

Marlene Haney for helping me keep things in perspective and then, of course, helping me “deal with it.”

Sandy Rockwood for insisting you can’t wait for the finished product, which in itself is always a much-appreciated pat on the back.

Mary Means for taking such loving care of my kids while I’m on the road. I couldn’t do what I do without the peace of mind you provide.

Rich Kava, retired firefighter and paramedic as well as cousin and friend, for listening, encouraging, sharing your stories and always making me laugh.

Sharon Car, fellow writer and friend, for letting me vent despite my good fortune.

Richard Evnen for witty repartee, kind and genuine words of encouragement and a friendship that includes pretending I know what I’m doing, even though we both know otherwise.

Father Dave Korth for making me realise what a rare gift it is to be a “co-creator.”

Patricia Kava, my mother, whose undeniable strength is a true inspiration.

Edward Kava, my father, who passed away October 17, 2001, and who was surely a co-creator in his own right.

And last but certainly never least, a “from the heart” thank-you to Debbie Carlin. Your spirit and energy, your generosity, your friendship and love have made an amazing difference in my life. I will always feel blessed that our paths have crossed.

CHAPTER 1

WEDNESDAY November 20 Suffolk County, Massachusetts, on the Neponset River

Eric Pratt leaned his head against the cabin wall. Plaster crumbled. It trickled down his shirt collar, sticking to the sweat on the back of his neck like tiny insects attempting to crawl beneath his skin. Outside it had gotten quiet—too quiet—the silence grinding seconds into minutes and minutes into eternity. What the hell were they up to?

With the floodlights no longer blasting through the dirty windows, Eric had to squint to make out the hunched shadows of his comrades. They were scattered throughout the cabin. They were exhausted and tense but ready and waiting. In the twilight, he could barely see them, but he could smell them: the pungent odor of sweat mixed with what he had come to recognize as the scent of fear. Freedom of speech. Freedom from fear.

Where was that freedom now? Bullshit! It was all bullshit! Why hadn’t he seen that long ago?

He relaxed his grip on the AR-15 assault rifle. In the last hour, the gun had grown heavier, yet, it remained the only thing that brought him a sense of security. He was embarrassed to admit that the gun gave him more comfort than any of David’s mumblings of prayer or Father’s radioed words of encouragement, both of which had stopped hours before.

What good were words, anyway, at a time like this? What power could they wield now as the six of them remained trapped in this one-room cabin? Now that they were surrounded by woods filled with FBI and ATF agents? With Satan’s warriors descending upon them, what words could protect them from the anticipated explosion of bullets? The enemy had come. It was just as Father had predicted, but they’d need more than words to stop them. Words were just plain bullshit! He didn’t care if God heard his thoughts. What more could God do to him now?

Eric brought the barrel of the gun to rest against his cheek, its cool metal soothing and reassuring.

Kill or be killed.

Yes, those were words he understood. Those words he could still believe in. He leaned his head back and let the plaster crumble into his hair, the pieces reminding him again of insects, of head lice burrowing into his greasy scalp. He closed his eyes and wished he could shut off his mind. Why was it so damned quiet? What the hell were they doing out there? He held his breath and listened.

Water dripped from the pump in the corner. Somewhere a clock ticked off the seconds. Outside a branch scraped against the roof. Above his head, a crisp fall breeze streamed in through the cracked window, bringing with it the scent of pine needles and the sound of dry leaves skittering across the ground like the rattle of bones in a cardboard box.

It’s all that’s left. Just a box of bones.

Bones and an old gray T-shirt, Justin’s T-shirt. That was all that was left of his brother. Father had given him the box and told him Justin hadn’t been strong enough. That his faith hadn’t been strong enough. That this is what happened when you didn’t believe.

Eric couldn’t shake the image of those white bones, picked clean by wild animals. He couldn’t stand the thought of it, bears or coyotes—or maybe both—growling and fighting over the ripped flesh. How could he endure the guilt? Why had he allowed it? Justin had come to the compound, attempting to save him, to convince him to leave, and what had Eric done in return? He should have never allowed Father’s initiation ritual to take place. He should have escaped while he and Justin had a chance. Now what chance was there? And all he had of his younger brother was a cardboard box of bones. The memory brought a shiver down his back. He jerked it off, opening his eyes to see if anyone had noticed, but found only darkness swallowing the insides of the cabin.

“What’s happening?” a voice screeched out.

Eric jumped to his feet, crouching low, swinging the rifle into position. In the shadows he could see the robotic jerks of the others, the panic clicking out in a metallic rhythm as they swung their own weapons into place.

“David, what’s going on?” the voice asked again, this time softer and accompanied by a crackle of static.

Eric allowed himself to breathe and slid back down the wall, while he watched David crawl to the two-way radio across the room.

“We’re still here,” David whispered. “They’ve got us—”

“No wait,” the voice interrupted. “Mary should be joining you in fifteen minutes.”

There was a pause. Eric wondered if any of the others found Father’s code words as absurd. Or for that matter, wouldn’t anyone listening in find the words strange and outrageous?

Yet without hesitation, he heard David turn the knobs, changing the radio’s frequency to channel 15.

The room grew silent again. Eric could see the others positioning themselves closer to the radio, anxiously awaiting instructions or perhaps some divine intervention. David seemed to be waiting, too. Eric wished he could see David’s face. Was he as frightened as the rest of them? Or would he continue to play out his part as the brave leader of this botched mission?

“David,” the radio voice crackled, channel 15’s frequency not as clear.

“We’re here, Father,” David answered, the quiver unmistakable, and Eric’s stomach took a dive. If David was afraid, then things were worse than any of them realized.

“What’s the situation?”

“We’re surrounded. No gunfire has been exchanged yet.” David paused to cough as if to dislodge the fear. “I’m afraid there’s no choice but to surrender.”

Eric felt the relief wash over him. Then quickly he glanced around the cabin, grateful for the mask of darkness, grateful the others couldn’t witness his relief, his betrayal. He set the rifle aside. He let his muscles relax. Surrender, yes of course. It was their only choice. This nightmare would soon be over.

He couldn’t even remember how long it had been. For hours, the loudspeaker had blared outside. The floodlights had sprayed the cabin with blinding light. While inside the radio had screeched on and on with Father reminding them to be brave. Now Eric wondered if perhaps it was a thin line that separated the brave and the foolish.

Suddenly, he realized Father was taking a long time to respond. His muscles tensed. He held his breath and listened. Outside, leaves rustled. There was movement. Or was it his imagination playing tricks on him? Had exhaustion given way to paranoia?

Then Father’s voice whispered, “If you surrender, they’ll torture you.” The words were cryptic, but the tone soothing and calm. “They have no intention of allowing you to live. Remember Waco. Remember Ruby Ridge.” And then he went silent, while everyone waited as if hanging by a thread, hoping for instruction or, at least, some words of encouragement. Where were those powerful words that could heal and protect?

Eric heard branches snap. He grabbed his rifle. The others had also heard and were crawling and sliding across the wooden floor to get back to their posts.

Eric listened, despite the annoying banging of his heart. Sweat trickled down his back. His fingers shook so violently he kept them off the trigger. Had snipers moved into position? Or worse, were agents getting ready to torch the cabin, just as they had done in Waco? Father had warned them about the flames of Satan. With all the explosive ammo in the storage bunker beneath the floorboards, the place would be a fiery inferno within seconds. There would be no escape.

The floodlights blasted the cabin, again.

All of them scurried like rats, pressing themselves into the shadows. Eric banged his rifle against his knee and slid down against the wall. His skin bristled into goose bumps. The exhaustion had rubbed his nerves raw. His heart slammed against his rib cage, making it difficult to breathe.

“Here we go again,” he muttered just as a voice bellowed over the loudspeaker.

“Hold your fire. This is Special Agent Richard Delaney with the FBI. I just want to talk to you. See if we can resolve this misunderstanding with words instead of bullets.”

Eric wanted to laugh. More bullshit. But laughter would require movement, and right now his body stayed paralyzed against the wall. The only movement was that of his trembling hands as he gripped the rifle tighter. He would place his bet on bullets. Not words. Not anymore.

David moved away from the radio. He walked toward the front window, his rifle limp at his side. What the hell was he doing? In the floodlight, Eric could see David’s face, and his peaceful expression sent a new wave of fear through Eric’s veins.

“Don’t let them take you alive,” Father’s voice screeched over the static. “You’re all heroes, brave warriors. You know what must be done now.”

David kept walking to the window as though he didn’t hear, couldn’t hear. Hypnotized by the blinding light, he stood there, his tall, lean figure wrapped in a halo, reminding Eric of pictures he had seen of saints in his catechism books.

“Give us a minute,” David yelled out to the agent. “Then we’ll come out, Mr. Delaney, and we’ll talk. But just to you. No one else.”

He saw the lie. Even before David pulled the plastic bag from his jacket pocket, Eric knew there would be no meeting, no words exchanged. The sight of the red-and-white capsules made him light-headed and dizzy. No, this couldn’t be happening. There had to be another way. He didn’t want to die. Not here. Not this way.

“Remember there is honor in death,” Father’s voice came smooth and clear, the static gone now, almost as if he were standing in the room with them. Almost as though he were answering Eric’s thoughts. “You are heroes, each and every one of you. Satan will not destroy you.”

The others lined up like sheep to the slaughter, each taking a death pill, reverently handling it like hosts at communion. No one objected. The looks on their faces were of relief, exhaustion and fear having driven them to this.

But Eric couldn’t move. The convulsions of panic had immobilized him. His knees were too weak to stand. He clutched his rifle, hanging on to it as though it were his final lifeline. David, zeroing in on Eric’s reluctance, brought the last capsule to him and held it out in the palm of his hand.

“It’s okay, Eric. Just swallow it. You won’t feel a thing.” David’s voice was as calm and expressionless as his face. His eyes were blank, the life already gone.

Eric just sat there, staring at the small capsule, unable to move. His clothes stuck to his body, drenched in sweat. Across the room the voice droned on over the two-way radio. “A better place awaits all of you. Don’t be afraid. You are all brave warriors who have made us proud. Your sacrifice will save hundreds.”

Eric took the capsule with shaking fingers and enough hesitation to make David stand over him. David popped his own pill into his mouth and swallowed hard. Then he waited for the others and for Eric to do the same. The calm was unraveling in their leader. Eric could see it in David’s pinched face, or was it the cyanide already eating its way out of his stomach lining?

“Do it!” David said through clenched teeth. Everyone obeyed, including Eric.

Satisfied, David returned to the window and called out, “We’re ready, Mr. Delaney. We’re ready to talk to you.” Then he raised his rifle to his shoulder, taking aim and waiting.

From the position of the rifle, Eric knew without seeing that it would be a perfect head shot, without risk of wasting any ammo on a bullet-proof vest. The agent would be dead before he hit the ground. Just as all of them would be dead before David’s rifle ran out of ammunition and the mass of Satan’s warriors crashed through the cabin’s doors.

Before the first shot, Eric lay down like the others around him, allowing for the cyanide to work its way through their empty stomachs and into their bloodstreams. It would take only a matter of minutes. Hopefully they would pass out before their respiratory systems shut down.

The gunfire started. Eric laid his cheek against the cold wooden floor, feeling the vibrations and shattered glass, listening to the screams of disbelief outside. And as the others closed their eyes and waited for death, Eric Pratt quietly spit out the red-and-white capsule he had carefully concealed inside his mouth. Unlike his little brother, Eric would not become a box of bones. Instead, he would take his chances with Satan.

CHAPTER 2

Washington, D.C.

Maggie O’Dell’s heels clicked on the cheap linoleum, announcing her arrival. But the brightly lit hallway—more a whitewashed, concrete tunnel than a hallway—appeared to be empty. There were no voices, no noises coming from behind the closed doors she passed. The security guard on the main floor had recognized her before she displayed her badge. He had waved her through and smiled when she said “Thanks, Joe,” not noticing that she had to glance at his name tag to do so.

She slowed to check her watch. Still another two hours before sunrise. Her boss, Assistant Director Kyle Cunningham, had gotten her out of bed with his phone call. Nothing unusual about that. As an FBI agent she was used to phones ringing in the middle of the night. And there was nothing unusual about the fact that he hadn’t awakened her with his call. All he had interrupted was her routine tossing and turning. She’d been awakened once again by nightmares. There were enough bloodied images, enough gut-wrenching experiences in her memory bank to haunt her subconscious for years. Just the thought clenched her teeth, and only now did she realize she had developed a walk that included hands fisted at her sides. She shook the fists open, flexing her fingers as if scolding them for betraying her.

What had been unusual about Cunningham’s phone call was his strained and distressed voice. Just one of the reasons for Maggie’s tension. The man defined the term cool and collected. She had worked with him for almost nine years, and couldn’t remember ever hearing his voice being anything other than level, calm, clipped and to the point. Even when he had reprimanded her. However, this morning Maggie could swear she had heard a quiver, a twinge of emotion too close to the surface, obstructing his throat. It was enough to unnerve her. If Cunningham was upset about this case, then it had to be bad. Really bad.

He had filled her in on the few details he knew, still too early for specifics. There had been a standoff between the ATF and FBI and a group of men holed up in a cabin somewhere in Massachusetts on the Neponset River. Three agents had been wounded, one fatally. Five suspects in the cabin were dead. One lone survivor had been taken into federal custody and sent to Boston. Intelligence had not nailed down, yet, who the young men were, what group they belonged to or why they had stockpiled an arsenal of weapons, fired on agents and then taken their own lives.

While dozens of agents and Justice Department officials combed the woods and the cabin for answers to those questions, Cunningham had been asked to start a criminal analysis of the suspects. He had sent Maggie’s partner, Special Agent R.J. Tully, to the scene and Maggie—because of her forensics and premed background—had been sent here into the city morgue where the dead—five young men and one agent—were waiting to tell their tale.

As she came to the open door at the end of the hall, she could see them. The black body bags lined up on steel tables one after another, looking like a macabre art exhibit. It almost looked too strange to be real, but then, wasn’t that the way so many recent events in her life had been? Some days it was difficult to distinguish what was real and what was simply one of those routine nightmares.

Maggie was surprised to find Stan Wenhoff gowned up and waiting for her. Usually Stan left the early morning call-ins to his competent and able assistants.

“Good morning, Stan.”

“Humph.” He grunted his familiar greeting as he kept his back to her and held up slides to the fluorescent light.

He would pretend the urgency and stature of this case weren’t the reason he had crawled out of bed to be here, when his normal method would have been to call one of his assistants. It wasn’t that Stan would want to make certain everything was carried out by the book as much as he wouldn’t want to miss an opportunity to be the point man for the media. Most pathologists and medical examiners Maggie knew were quiet, solemn, sometimes reclusive. However, Stan Wenholf, the chief medical examiner for the District, loved being in the limelight and in front of a TV camera.

“You’re late,” he grumbled, this time glancing over at her.

“I got here as quickly as I could.”

“Humph,” he repeated, his fat, stubby fingers rattling the slides back into their container to signal his discontent.

Maggie ignored him, took off her jacket and helped herself to the linen closet, knowing there would be no invitation issued. She wanted to tell Stan that he wasn’t the only one who didn’t want to be here.

Maggie looped the plastic apron’s strings around her waist. She found herself wondering how much of her life had been dictated by killers, getting her out of bed in the middle of the night to hunt them down in moonlit woods, along churning black rivers, through pastures of sandburs or fields of corn? She realized that this time, she might actually be the lucky one. Unlike Agent Tully’s, at least this morning her feet would be warm and dry.

By the time she returned from the linen closet, Stan had unzipped their first customer and was peeling back the bag, careful that any contents—including liquid contents—didn’t fall or run out. Maggie was startled by how young the boy looked, his gray face smooth, having never yet experienced a razor. He couldn’t be more than fifteen or sixteen years old. Certainly not old enough to drink or vote. Probably not old enough to own a car or even have a driver’s license. But old enough to know how to obtain and use a semiautomatic rifle.

He looked peaceful. No blood, no gashes, no abrasions—not a single mark that explained his death.

“I thought Cunningham told me they committed suicide? I don’t see any gunshot wounds.”

Stan grabbed a plastic bag off the counter behind him. He handed it to her across the boy’s body.

“The one who survived spit his out. I’m guessing arsenic or cyanide. Probably cyanide. Seventy-five milligrams of potassium cyanide would do the trick. Eat through the stomach lining in no time.”

The bag held one ordinary red-and-white capsule. Maggie could easily see the manufacturer’s name stamped on the side. Though intended to be an over-the-counter headache medication, someone had replaced the contents, using the capsule as a convenient container.

“So they were well prepared for suicide.”

“Yeah, I’d say so. Where the hell do kids come up with these ideas today?”

But Maggie had a feeling it hadn’t been the boys’ idea. Someone else had convinced them they could not be taken alive. Someone who amassed arsenals, concocted homemade death pills and didn’t hesitate to sacrifice young lives. Someone much more dangerous than these boys.

“Can we check the others before you start the autopsies?”

Maggie made it sound like a casual request. She wanted to see if all the boys were Caucasian, supporting her initial hunch that they might belong to a white supremacist group. Stan didn’t seem to mind her request. Maybe he was curious to get a look himself.

He started unzipping the next bag and pointed a stubby finger at Maggie.

“Please put your goggles down first. They’re not doing you any good on top of your head.”

She hated the suffocating things, but she knew Stan was a stickler for rules. She obeyed and pulled on a pair of latex gloves. She glanced at the bag Stan had opened as she unzipped the one in front of her. Another blond-haired Caucasian boy slept peacefully as Stan pushed the black nylon material down around his face. Then she looked at the bag her fingers were peeling open. She didn’t get very far when she stopped. She snapped back her hands as though she had been stung.

“Oh Jesus!” Maggie stared at the man’s gray face. The perfectly round bullet hole was small and black against his white forehead. She could hear the sloshing of liquid behind his head; liquid that she had disturbed but that still remained captured inside the bag.

“What?” Stan’s voice startled her as he leaned over the body, trying to see what had upset her. “It must be the agent. They said there was one dead.” He sounded impatient.

Maggie stepped back. A cold sweat washed over her body. Suddenly she grabbed onto the counter, unsure of her knees. Now Stan was staring at her, concern replacing impatience.

“I know him” was the only explanation she could manage before she took off for the sink.

CHAPTER 3

Suffolk County, Massachusetts

R.J. Tully hated the whop-whop of the helicopter blades. It wasn’t that he was afraid of flying, but helicopters made him aware that he was riding hundreds of feet above ground in nothing more than a bubble with an engine. And something this noisy couldn’t possibly be safe. Yet he was grateful the noise prevented any conversation. Assistant Director Cunningham had appeared agitated and visibly shaken the entire trip. It unnerved Tully, who had known his boss for less than a year. He had never seen Cunningham reveal much emotion other than a frown. The man didn’t even swear.

Cunningham had been fidgeting with the helicopter’s two-way radio, trying to get updated information from the ground crew investigating the scene. All they had been told so far was that the bodies had been airlifted to the District. Since the standoff had been a federal matter, the investigation—including the autopsies—would be handled under federal jurisdiction instead of county or state. And Director Mueller had personally insisted that the bodies be brought to the District, especially the one dead agent.

There were still no IDs being issued. Tully knew it was the identity of the fallen agent that had Cunningham jerking around in his seat, looking for things to occupy his hands and readjusting his headset every few seconds as if a new radio frequency would bring him new information. Tully wished his boss would sit still. He could feel the extra motion shake the helicopter, even though he realized it was probably scientifically impossible to do so. Or was it?

As the pilot skimmed the treetops looking for a clearing to land, Tully tried not to think of the rattle under his seat. It sounded suspiciously like loose nuts and bolts. Instead, he tried to remember if he had left enough cash on the kitchen table for Emma. Was today her school field trip? Or was it this weekend? Why didn’t he write these things down? Although shouldn’t she be old enough and responsible enough to remember on her own? And why didn’t this get any easier?

Lately, it seemed as though all his parenting had been learned the hard way. Well, if the field trip was today maybe it wouldn’t hurt for Emma to learn a few lessons. If he shortchanged her, maybe it would finally convince her to look for a part-time job. After all, she was fifteen years old. When Tully was fifteen he was working after school and in the summers, pumping gas at Ozzie’s 66 for two dollars an hour. Had things changed that drastically since he was a teenager? Then he stopped himself. That was thirty years ago, a lifetime ago. How could it be thirty years?

The helicopter began its descent and Tully’s stomach flipped up into his chest, bringing him back to the present. The pilot had decided to take them down on a patch of grass no bigger than a doormat. Tully wanted to close his eyes. He stared at a rip in the back of the pilot’s leather seat. It didn’t help. The sight of stuffing and springs only reminded Tully of the nuts and bolts rolling loose underneath him, probably disconnecting the landing gear.

For all his anxiety, the helicopter was grounded in seconds with a bounce, a thump and one last flip of Tully’s stomach. He thought about Agent O’Dell and wondered if he would rather have traded places with her. Then he thought about watching Wenhoff slicing into dead bodies. Easy answer. No contest. He’d still take the helicopter ride, loose screws and all.

A uniformed soldier had come out of the woods to meet them. Tully hadn’t thought about it, but it made sense that the Massachusetts National Guard would be brought in to secure the expansive wooded area. The soldier waited in military stance, while Tully and Cunningham pulled their belongings off the helicopter—an assortment of rain gear, a Coleman thermos and two briefcases—all the while trying to keep their heads down and their necks from being whiplashed by the powerful blades. When they were clear, Cunningham waved to the pilot, and the helicopter didn’t hesitate, taking off and scattering leaves, a sudden downpour of crackling red and gold.

“Sirs, if you follow me, I’ll take you to the site.” He reached for Cunningham’s briefcase, knowing immediately which of them to suck up to. Tully was impressed. Cunningham, however, wouldn’t be rushed, holding up a hand.

“I need to know names,” Cunningham said. It wasn’t a question. It was a demand.

“I’m not authorized to—”

“I understand that,” Cunningham interrupted. “I promise you won’t get in trouble, but if you know, you need to tell me. I need to know now.”

The soldier took up his military stance again, not flinching and holding Cunningham’s gaze. He seemed determined to not divulge any secrets. Cunningham must have realized what he was up against, because Tully couldn’t believe what he heard his boss say next.

“Please, tell me,” Cunningham said in a quiet, almost conciliatory tone.

Without knowing the assistant director, the soldier must have recognized what it had taken for him to say this. The man relaxed his stance and his face softened.

“I honestly can’t tell you all their names, but the one who was killed was a Special Agent Delaney.”

“Richard Delaney?”

“Yes, sir. I believe so, sir. He was the HRT—the Hostage Rescue Team—negotiator. From what I heard, he had them ready to talk. They invited him into the cabin, then opened fire. The bastards. Sorry, sir.”

“No, don’t apologize. And thank you for telling me.”

The soldier turned to lead them through the trees, but Tully wondered if Cunningham would manage the trek. His face had gone white; his usual straight-backed walk seemed a bit wobbly.

With only a quick glance at Tully, he said, “I fucked up big time. I just sent Agent O’Dell to autopsy a friend of hers.”

Tully knew this case would be different. Just the idea that Cunningham would use the words please and fucked in the same day, let alone the same hour, was not a good sign.

CHAPTER 4

Maggie accepted the cool, damp towel from Stan and avoided his eyes. With only a quick glance, she could see his concern. He had to be concerned. Judging from the towel’s softness, she could tell it had come from Stan’s own privately laundered stash, unlike the institutional stiff ones that smelled like Clorox. The man had a cleaning obsession, a fetish that seemed contradictory to his profession; a profession that included a weekly, if not daily, dose of blood and body parts. She didn’t question his kindness, however, and without a single word, took the towel and rested her face in its cool, plush texture, waiting for the nausea to pass.

She hadn’t thrown up at the sight of a dead body since her initiation into the Behavioral Science Unit. She still remembered her first crime scene: spaghetti streaks of blood on the walls of a hot, fly-infested double-wide trailer. The blood’s owner had been decapitated and hanging by a dislocated ankle from a hook in the ceiling like a butchered chicken left to jerk and drain out, which explained the blood-streaked walls. Since then, she had seen comparable, if not worse—body parts in take-out containers and mutilated little boys. But one thing she had never seen, one thing she had never had to do, was look down into a body bag soaked with the blood, cerebral spinal fluid and the brain matter of a friend.

“Cunningham should have told you,” Stan said, now watching her from across the room, keeping his distance as if her condition might be contagious.

“I’m sure he didn’t know. He and Agent Tully were just leaving for the scene when he called me.”

“Well, he’ll certainly understand you not assisting me.” He sounded relieved—no, pleased—with the prospect of not having her shadow him all morning. Maggie smiled into the towel. Good ol’ Stan was back to his normal self.

“I can have a couple autopsy reports ready for you by noon.” He was washing his hands again, as if preparing the damp towel for her had somehow contaminated his precious hands.

The urge to escape was overwhelming. Her empty but churning stomach was reason enough to do just that. Yet there was something that nagged at her. She remembered an early morning less than a year ago in a Kansas City hotel room. Special Agent Richard Delaney had been concerned about her mental stability, so much so that he had risked their friendship to make sure she was safe. After almost five months of him and Agent Preston Turner playing her bodyguards, protecting her from a serial killer named Albert Stucky, it had come down to that early morning confrontation, Delaney pitting his stubbornness against hers all because he wanted to protect her.

However, at the time, she had refused to see it as protection. She had refused to simply see it as his attempt to, once again, play the role of her surrogate big brother. No, at the time, she had been mad as hell at him. In fact, that was the last time she had spoken to him. Now here he lay in a black nylon body bag, unable to accept her apology for being so pigheaded. Perhaps the least she could do was to make certain he received the respect he deserved. Nausea or not, she owed him that.

“I’ll be okay,” she said.

Stan glanced at her over his shoulder as he prepared his shiny instruments for the first boy’s autopsy. “Of course you will be.”

“No, I mean I’m staying.”

This time he scowled at her over his protective goggles, and she knew she had made the right decision. Now, if only her stomach would agree.

“Did they find the spent cartridge?” she asked as she put on a fresh pair of gloves.

“Yes. It’s over on the counter in one of the evidence bags. Looks like a high-powered rifle. I haven’t taken a close look yet.”

“So we know cause of death beyond a doubt?”

“Oh, you betcha. No need for a second shot.”

“And there’s no mistaking the entrance wound or the exit wound?”

“No. I imagine it won’t be difficult to figure out.”

“Good. Then we won’t need to cut him. We can make our report from an external examination.”

This time Stan stopped and turned to stare at her, then said, “Margaret, I hope you’re not suggesting that I stop short of doing a full autopsy?”

“No, I’m not suggesting that.”

He relaxed and picked up his instruments before she added, “I’m not suggesting it, Stan. I’m insisting you don’t do a full autopsy. And believe me, you don’t want to fight me on this one.”

She ignored his glare and unzipped the rest of Agent Delaney’s body bag, praying her knees would hold her up. She needed to think of his wife, Karen, who had always hated Delaney being an FBI agent almost as much as Maggie’s soon-to-be ex-husband, Greg, hated her being one. It was time to think of Karen and the two little girls who would grow up without a daddy. If Maggie could do nothing else, she’d make certain they didn’t have to see him mutilated any more than necessary.

The thought brought back memories of Maggie’s own father, the image of him lying in the huge mahogany casket, wearing a brown suit Maggie had never seen him in before. And his hair—it had been all wrong—combed in a way he would never have worn it. The mortician had tried to paint over the burned flesh and salvage what pieces of skin were still there, but it wasn’t enough. As a twelve-year-old girl, Maggie had been horrified by the sight and nauseated by the smell of some sort of perfume that couldn’t mask that overpowering odor of ashes and burned flesh. That smell. There was nothing close nor worse than the smell of burned flesh. God! She could smell it now. And the priest’s words hadn’t helped: You are dust and unto dust you shall return, ashes to ashes.

That smell, those words and the sight of her father’s body had haunted her childhood dreams for weeks as she tried to remember what he looked like before he lay in that casket, before those images of him turned to dust in her memories.

She remembered how terribly frightened she had been seeing him like that. She remembered the crinkle of plastic under his clothes, his mummy-wrapped hands tucked down at his sides. She remembered being concerned about the blisters on his cheek.

“Did it hurt, Daddy?” she had whispered to him.

She had waited until her mother and the others weren’t looking. Then Maggie had gathered all of her child-size strength and courage and reached her small hand over the edge of the smooth, shiny wood and the satin bedding. With her fingertips she had brushed her father’s hair back off his forehead, trying to ignore the plastic feel of his skin and that hideous Frankenstein scar at his scalp. But despite her fear, she had to rearrange his hair. She had to put it back to the way he always liked to wear it, to the way she remembered it. She needed her last image of him to be one she recognized. It was a small, silly thing, but it had made her feel better.

Now, looking down at Delaney’s peaceful gray face, Maggie knew she needed to do whatever she could, so that two more little girls wouldn’t be horrified to look at their daddy’s face one last time.

CHAPTER 5

Suffolk County, Massachusetts

Eric Pratt stared at the two men, wondering which of them would be the one to kill him. They were seated facing him, so close their knees brushed against his. So close he could see the older man’s jaw muscles clench every time he stopped chewing. Spearmint. It was definitely spearmint gum he was grinding his teeth into.

Neither looked like Satan. They had introduced themselves as Tully and Cunningham. Eric had been able to hear that much through the fog. Both men looked clean-cut—close-cropped hair, no dirt beneath their fingernails. The older one even wore nerdy wire-rimmed glasses. No, they looked nothing like Eric had expected Satan to look. And just like the others now crawling around the cabin floor and combing the woods outside, these guys wore the navy-blue windbreakers with the yellow letters, FBI.

The younger one had on a blue tie, pulled loose, his shirt collar unbuttoned. The other wore a red tie, cinched tight at the buttoned collar of a brilliant white shirt. Red, white and blue, with those government letters emblazoned across their backs. Why hadn’t he thought of it before? Of course Satan would come disguised, wrapped in symbolic colors. Father was right. Yes, of course, he was always right. Why had he doubted Father? He should have obeyed, not doubted, not taken his chances with the enemy. What a fool he had been.

Eric scratched at the lice still digging into his scalp, digging deeper and deeper. Could Satan’s soldiers hear the scratching sounds? Or perhaps they were the ones making the imaginary lice dig into his skull. Satan had powers, after all. Incredible powers he could transmit through his soldiers. Powers that Eric knew could easily inflict pain without so much as a touch.

The one called Tully was saying something to him, lips moving, eyes burrowing into Eric’s, but Eric had turned down the volume hours ago. Or was it days ago? He couldn’t remember how much time had passed. He couldn’t remember how long he had been in this cabin, how long he had sat in this straight-backed chair with his wrists handcuffed and his feet in shackles, waiting for the inevitable torture to begin. He had no sense of time, but he did know the exact moment his system had begun to shut down. The exact second his mind had gone numb. It was the instant that David dropped to the floor, the thud of his body forcing Eric to risk opening his eyes. That was when he found himself staring directly into David’s eyes, their faces only inches apart.

Eric had seen his friend’s mouth open. Thought he heard a faint whisper, three words, no more. Maybe it had been Eric’s imagination, because David’s eyes were already empty when the words “He tricked us” left his lips. He must have heard his friend wrong. Satan hadn’t tricked them at all. They had tricked him, instead. Hadn’t they?

Suddenly, the men were scrambling to their feet. Eric braced himself as best he could, closed fists, shoulders hunched, head down. Only there were no blows, no bullets, no wounds inflicted of any kind. And their voices melted together, the hysteria in them breaking through Eric’s self-imposed barrier.

“We need to get out of the cabin. Now.”

Eric twisted around in the chair, just as one of the men pulled him to his feet and started to shove him toward the door. He saw another man, with some weird contraption mounted on top of his head, come up out of the floorboards. Of course, they had found the hidden arsenal. Father would be disappointed. They had needed that stockpile of weapons to fight Satan. Their mission had failed before they could deliver them back to their home camp. Yes, Father would be very disappointed. They had let everyone down. Maybe more lives would be lost, because all the weapons that had taken months to amass would now be confiscated and put under Satan’s control. Precious lives might be lost because they had failed their mission. How could Father protect any of them without these weapons?

The men shoved and pulled at him, hurrying out the cabin door and down into the woods. Eric didn’t understand. What were they running from? He tried to listen, tried to hear. He wanted to know what could possibly frighten Satan’s soldiers.

They gathered around the man with the strange headgear, who brought out a metal box with blinking lights and odd wires. Eric had no idea what it was, but it sounded like the man had found it down with the weapons.

“There’s an arsenal underneath large enough to blow this place to kingdom come.”

Eric couldn’t help but smile and immediately felt a jab to his kidneys. He wanted to tell Mr. Tully, the owner of the elbow in his back, that he wasn’t smiling about them being blown up, but rather at the idea that any of them believed they would ever be allowed into the Kingdom of God.

No one else noticed his smile. They focused on the dark-haired man with the crazy gogglelike contraption now pushed up on top of his head, reminding Eric of some life-size insect.

“Tell us something we don’t already know,” one of the men challenged.

“Okay. How about this. The entire cabin is wired,” the insect man told them.

“Shit!”

“It gets even better. This is only a secondary switch.” He showed them the metal box he held. “The real detonator’s offsite.” Then he pointed to the blinking red button and flipped a switch. The light shut off. Within seconds it snapped back on, blinking again like a pulsing red eye.

The men turned and twisted, craning their necks and looking around them. Some of them had their guns drawn. Even Eric’s head pivoted, his eyes suddenly clear and squinting into the shadows of the woods. He didn’t understand. He wondered if David had known about the metal box.

“Where is it?” demanded the big guy with no neck, the one everyone seemed to treat as being in charge, the only one dressed in a navy blazer instead of a windbreaker. “Where’s the goddamn detonator?”

It took Eric a minute to realize the man was asking him. He met his eyes and stared like he had been taught, looking directly into the black pupils and not blinking, not flinching, not letting the enemy win even one word.

“Hold on a minute,” the one named Cunningham said. “Why wouldn’t they want the detonator inside the cabin, so they could control when and how to blow it up? We already know they were willing to take their own lives. So why not do it by blowing themselves and the arsenal up?”

“Maybe they still intend to blow us up.” And there was more shuffling, more worried heads pivoting.

Eric wanted to tell them Father would never blow up the cabin. He couldn’t sacrifice the weapons. Father needed them to fight, to continue to fight. Instead, he simply transferred his stare to Cunningham, who not only held his gaze but bore into him as if his powers could wrench out the truth with only a look. A knot in Eric’s stomach twisted, but he didn’t blink. He couldn’t show weakness.

“No, if they wanted to blow us up, we’d already be dead,” Cunningham continued without looking away. “I think the real targets are already dead. I think their leader just wanted to make sure they did the right thing.”

Eric listened. It was a trick. Satan was testing him. Seeing if he would flinch. Father wanted to save them from being taken alive and tortured. This was simply the beginning of that torture, and Satan’s soldier, this Cunningham, knew his job well. His eyes wouldn’t let Eric go, but he wouldn’t blink. He couldn’t look away. He had to ignore the thunder of his heart in his ears, and the knot tightening in his gut.

“The detonator,” Cunningham said without a single blink of his own eyes, “may have been a backup plan. If they didn’t swallow their death pills, he was prepared to blow them to pieces. Some leader you have, kid.”

Eric wouldn’t take the bait. Father would never do such a thing. They had voluntarily given up their lives. No one had forced them. Eric simply hadn’t been strong enough to join them. He was weak. He was a coward. For a moment he had dared to lose faith. He had not been a brave, loyal warrior like the others, but he wouldn’t show weakness now. He wouldn’t give in.

Then suddenly, Eric remembered David’s last words. “He tricked us.” Eric thought David had meant Satan. But what if he meant …? It wasn’t possible. Father had only wanted to save them from being tortured. Hadn’t he? Father wouldn’t trick them. Would he?

Cunningham waited, watching and catching Eric as he blinked. That’s when he said, “I wonder if your precious leader knows you’re still alive? Do you suppose he’ll come to your rescue, just like he did last night?”

But Eric was no longer sure of anything as he stared at the metal box flashing its strange lights, red and green, stop and go, life and death, heaven and hell. Maybe David and the others were not only the brave ones; now Eric wondered if perhaps they were also the lucky ones.

CHAPTER 6

SATURDAY November 23 Arlington National Cemetary

Maggie O’Dell gripped the lapels of her jacket into a fist, bracing herself for another gust of wind. She regretted leaving her trench coat in the car. She’d ripped it off in the church, blaming the stupid coat for her feeling of suffocation. Now, here in the cemetery, amid the black-clad mourners and stone tombstones, she wished she had something, anything, from which she could draw warmth.

She stood back and watched the group huddle together, surrounding the family under the canopy, intent on protecting them from the wind, as though compensating for the mistakes that had brought them all here today. She recognized many of them in their standard dark suits and their trained solemn faces. Except in the middle of this graveyard, even those bulges under their jackets couldn’t prevent them from looking vulnerable, stripped by the wind of their government-issue, straight-backed posture.

Watching from the fringes, Maggie was grateful for her colleagues’ protective instincts. Grateful they prevented her from seeing the faces of Karen and the two little girls who would grow up without their daddy. She didn’t want to witness any more of their grief, their pain; a pain so palpable it threatened to demolish years of protective layers she had carefully constructed to hide and stifle her own grief, her own pain. Standing back here, she hoped to stay safe.

Despite the crisp autumn gusts attacking her bare legs and snapping at her skirt, her palms were sweaty. Her knees wavered. Some invisible force knocked at her heart. Jesus! What the hell was wrong with her? Ever since she opened that body bag and saw Delaney’s lifeless face, she had been a wreck of nerves, conjuring up ghosts from the past—images and words better left buried. She sucked in deep breaths, despite the cold air stinging her lungs. This sting, this discomfort, was preferable to the sting the memories could bring.

After twenty-one years, it annoyed her that funerals could still reduce her to that twelve-year-old girl. Without will or warning, she remembered it all as though it had happened yesterday. She could see her father’s casket lowered into the ground. She could feel her mother tugging at her arm, demanding that Maggie toss a handful of dirt on top of the casket’s shiny surface. And now, in a matter of minutes, she knew the lone bugler’s version of taps would be enough to knot her stomach.

She wanted to leave. No one would notice, all of them wrapped in their own memories or vulnerabilities. Except that she owed it to Delaney to be here. Their last conversation had been one of anger and betrayal. It was too late for apologies, but perhaps her being here would bring her a sense of resolution, if not absolution.

The wind whipped at her again, swirling dried and crackling leaves like spirits rising up and sailing between the graves. The howl and ghostly moans sent additional chills down Maggie’s back. As a child, she had felt the spirits of the dead, surrounding her, taunting her, laughing at her, whispering that they had taken away her father. That was the first time she had felt the incredible aloneness, which continued to stick to her like that handful of wet dirt she had squeezed between her fingers, squeezing tight while her mother insisted she toss it.

“Do it, Maggie,” she could still hear her mother say. “Just do it already and get it over with” had been her mother’s impatient words, her concern more of embarrassment than of her daughter’s grief.

A gloved hand touched Maggie’s shoulder. She jumped and resisted the instinct to reach inside her jacket for her gun.

“Sorry, Agent O’Dell. I didn’t mean to startle you.” Assistant Director Cunningham’s hand lingered on her shoulder, his eyes straight ahead, watching.

Maggie thought she was the only one who had not joined the group gathered around the freshly cut grave, the dark hole in the ground that would house Special Agent Richard Delaney’s body. Why had he been so cocky, so stupid?

As if reading her mind, Cunningham said, “He was a good man, an excellent negotiator.”

Maggie wanted to ask, Why then was he here rather than at home with his wife and girls, preparing for a Saturday afternoon of watching college football with the gang? Instead, she whispered, “He was the best.”

Cunningham fidgeted at her side, shoving his hands deep into his trench coat’s pockets. She realized that, although he would never embarrass her by offering his coat, he stood in such a way that protected her from the wind. But he hadn’t sought her out just to be her windbreak. She could see there was something on his mind. After almost ten years, she recognized the pursed lips and furrowed brow, the agitated shifting from one foot to the other, all subtle but telling signs for a man who normally defined the term professional.

Maggie waited, surprised that he, too, appeared to be waiting for some appropriate time.

“Do we know anything more about these men—what group they belonged to?” She tried to coax him, keeping her voice low, but they were far enough back that the wind would never allow them to be overheard.

“Not yet. They weren’t much more than boys. Boys with enough guns and ammo to take over a small country. But someone else, someone was definitely behind this. Some fanatical leader who doesn’t mind sacrificing his own. We’ll find out soon enough. Maybe when we dig up who owns that cabin.” He pushed at the bridge of his glasses and immediately replaced his hand into his pocket. “I owe you an apology, Agent O’Dell.”

Here it was, yet he hesitated. His uncomfortable behavior surprised and unnerved Maggie. It reminded her of the knot in her stomach and the ache in her chest. She didn’t want to talk about this, didn’t want the reminder. She wanted to think of something else, anything other than the image of Delaney crumpling to the ground. With little effort, she could still hear the sloshing of his brains and see the pieces of his skull in the body bag.

“You don’t owe me an apology, sir. You didn’t know,” she finally said, letting the pause last too long.

Still keeping his eyes straight ahead and his voice quiet, he said, “I should have checked before I sent you. I know how difficult that must have been for you.”

Maggie glanced up at him. Her boss’s face remained as stoic as usual, but there was a twitch of emotion at the corner of his mouth. She followed his eyes to the line of military men who were now marching onto the cemetery and into position.

Oh, God. Here we go.

Maggie’s knees grew unsteady. Immediately, she broke into a cold sweat. She wanted to escape, and now she wished Cunningham wasn’t right next to her. However, he didn’t seem to notice her discomfort. Instead, he stood at attention as the rifles clicked and clacked into position.

Maggie jumped at each gunshot, closing her eyes against the memories and wishing they would stay the hell away. She could still hear her mother warning her, scolding her, “Don’t you dare cry, Maggie. It’ll only make your face all red and puffy.”

She hadn’t cried then, and she wouldn’t cry now. But when the bugle began its lonesome song, she was shivering and biting her lower lip. Damn you, Delaney, she wanted to curse out loud. She had long ago decided God had a cruel sense of humor—or perhaps He simply wasn’t paying attention anymore.

The crowd suddenly opened to release a small girl out from under the tent, a piece of bright blue spilling between the black, like a tiny blue bird in a flock of black crows. Maggie recognized Delaney’s younger daughter, Abby, dressed in a royal-blue coat and matching hat and being led by her grandmother, Delaney’s mother. They were headed straight for Maggie and Cunningham, and they were about to destroy any hopes Maggie had of trying to isolate herself.

“Miss Abigail insists she cannot wait to use the rest room,” Mrs. Delaney said to Maggie as they approached. “Do you have any idea where one might be?”

Cunningham pointed to the main building behind them, hidden by the slope of the hill and the trees surrounding it. Mrs. Delaney took one look and her entire red-blotched face seemed to fall into a frown, as though she faced one more hill than she could possibly endure on this day of endless hills.

“I can take her,” Maggie volunteered before realizing she might be the worst possible person to comfort the girl. But surely, bathroom duty was something she could handle.

“Do you mind, Abigail? Would it be okay for Agent O’Dell to take you to the rest room?”

“Agent O’Dell?” The little girl’s face scrunched up as she looked around, trying to find the person her grandmother was talking about. Then suddenly, she said, “Oh, you mean Maggie? Her name’s Maggie, Grandma.”

“Yes, I’m sorry. I mean Maggie. Is it okay if you go with her?”

But Abby had already taken Maggie’s hand. “We need to hurry,” she told her, without looking up and pulling Maggie in the direction she had seen Cunningham point.

Maggie wondered if the four-year-old had any understanding of what had happened or why they were even at the cemetery. However, Maggie was simply relieved that her only task at the moment was to fight the wind and trek up the hill, leaving behind all those memories and wisps of spirits riding the wind. But as they got to the building that towered over the rows of white crosses and gray tombstones, Abby stopped and turned around to look back. The wind whipped at her blue coat, and Maggie could see her shiver. She felt the small hand squeeze tight the fingers it had managed to wrap around.

“Are you okay, Abby?”

She nodded twice, setting her hat bouncing. Then her chin stayed tucked down. “I hope he doesn’t get cold,” Abby said. Maggie’s heart took a plunge.

What should she say to her? How could she explain something that even she didn’t understand? She was thirty-three years old and still missed her own father, still couldn’t understand why he had been ripped away from her all those years ago. Years that should have healed the gaping wound that easily became exposed at the sound of a stupid bugle or the sight of a casket being lowered into the ground.

Before Maggie could offer any consolation, the girl looked up at her and said, “I made Mommy put a blanket in there with him.” Then, as if satisfied by the memory, she turned back toward the door and pulled Maggie along, ready to continue with the task at hand. “A blanket and a flashlight,” she added. “So he’ll be warm and not scared of the dark. Just till he gets to God’s house.”

Maggie couldn’t help but smile. Perhaps she could learn a thing or two from this wise four-year-old.

CHAPTER 7

Washington, D.C.

Justin Pratt sat on the steps of the Jefferson Memorial, pretending to rest his feet. Yeah, his feet were sore, but that wasn’t why he wanted to escape. For hours they had been walking between the monuments, handing out pamphlets to touring groups of giggling and shouting high school kids. They had hit the city at the right time—fall field trips. There must have been more than fifty groups from across the country. And they were all a fucking pain in the ass. It was hard to believe he was only about a year or two older than some of these idiots.

No, the real reason Justin had excused himself involved much more sinister thoughts than sore feet; illicit thoughts, according to the gospel of Reverend Joseph Everett and his followers. Jesus, would he ever get used to calling himself one of those followers, one of the chosen few? Probably not as long as he took breaks from handing out the word of God, only to sit back and admire Alice Hamlin’s breasts.

She looked up and waved at him as if she had read his thoughts. He fidgeted. Maybe he should take off his shoes to play up the sore-feet thing. Or had she already figured him out? She certainly couldn’t mind. Why else would she have worn such a tight pink sweater? Especially on a bus trip where they were to spend the day handing out godly propaganda. And then later, in about an hour, they’d be at the fucking prayer rally.

Jesus! He needed to watch his language.

He looked around, checking to see if any of Father’s little messengers could hear his thoughts. After all, Father sure as hell made it appear that he could. The man seemed to be telepathic or whatever that term was for reading people’s minds. It was downright spooky.

He grabbed one of the pamphlets so Alice would think he took their job seriously and maybe not notice that breast thing. The slick four-color pamphlets were pretty impressive with the word freedom in raised letters. What did Alice call it? Embossing? Very professional. It even included a color photograph of Reverend Everett and listed on the back the entire schedule of future prayer rallies, city by city. From the looks of the brochure, you’d think they could afford to eat something better than beans and rice seven days a week.

When he looked back at Alice, a new group of potential recruits had surrounded her. They listened and watched intently as her face and gestures became animated. She was three years older than Justin, an older woman. Just the idea gave him a hard-on. She didn’t have much street smarts, but she knew stuff about so many different things. She amazed him. Like all the quotes of Jefferson’s she had memorized. She recited them before they got up all the steps to read them off the walls. She kicked ass when it came to that history crap. And she knew that one-two-three thing about Jefferson. That he was the first secretary of something or another, second vice president and third president. How could she even remember that fucking shit?

It was one of the many things Justin admired about her. That had to be a good sign, that he didn’t care only about her great pair of tits, which had usually been the case with him and girls in the past. In fact, there was a whole list of things he liked about Alice. For one thing, she could make religion sound almost as exciting as if it were some fucking NASCAR race to heaven. And he liked the way she looked into her listeners’ eyes as though they were the only souls on earth for that moment. Alice Hamlin could make a suicidal maniac feel special and forget why he was out teetering on a ledge. Or at least, that’s how she made Justin feel. After all, he had been that suicidal maniac just a couple months ago.

Sometimes he still felt it, that restlessness, that urge to just forget about everything and stop trying so hard to make it look like he had his shit together. Especially now that Eric had left him and was off on some mission.

In fact, he had felt the urge as recently as this morning when he found himself wondering how he might take the blades out of his plastic disposable razor. He knew if the veins at the wrists were cut vertically instead of horizontally that a person bled to death much quicker. Most people fucked it up and did the horizontal thing. Cutting himself didn’t bother him. Getting his tattoo probably hurt a hell of a lot more than slitting your wrists.

Alice was bringing a group of girls up the stairs toward him. She’d want to introduce him. Earlier she had told him he was cute enough to convince any girl to attend Father’s rally. Words didn’t usually mean a fucking thing to Justin. Not after a lifetime of people telling him stuff. But when Alice said stuff, it was hard not to believe her. So he didn’t mind. Besides, he enjoyed watching girls walk up steps. Of course, he’d much rather be watching from behind, but this view wasn’t bad.

It was a chilly day and yet all three wore short-sleeved blouses. One even had on a tight knit top, cut short to show her flat stomach. It was a false indicator of a wanna-be wild side, since even from this distance, Justin could see the belly button was pierce-free. But it was still nice to look at.

Now, if they’d just shut up. Did all high school girls have that same high-pitched giggle? Where the fuck did they learn that squeal? It grated on his nerves, but he smiled, anyway, and offered a cute little tip of his baseball cap that only seemed to set them off again, but an octave higher. Dogs had to be pitching their ears for miles.

“Justin, I want you to meet some of my new friends.”

Alice and the three girls stopped in front of him, right at crotch level, and suddenly he forgot about sore feet or even Alice’s perfectly shaped tits—for a few minutes, anyway. The tall blonde and her shorter counterpart shielded their eyes from a momentary and rare appearance of the sun. The third one, a short girl with dark eyes, looked older up close. She wasn’t afraid to meet his eyes like the blonde and her bookend.

“This is Emma, Lisa and Ginny. Emma and Lisa are best friends from Reston, Virginia. Ginny lives here in the District. They never met each other before today, and see, we’re already good friends.”

The two blondes giggled and the tall one said, “Actually, her name is Alesha, but she hates that, so we shortened it to Lisa.”

“Well, my name is really Virginia,” the dark-eyed girl told them, only it came out as though it was a competition, and she needed to outdo her new friends.

“No way,” the blondes said in practiced unison.

“My dad thought it would be cute since we’re from Virginia. Which, by the way, my dad would kill me if he knew I was attending this sort of thing tonight. He hates this kind of stuff.” This she said to Alice, and like the name thing, she made it sound like a challenge instead of a simple statement.

Justin watched for Alice’s reaction. This girl wasn’t exactly a prize recruit, and Justin wondered why Alice had even invited her to stay for the prayer rally. Already Ms. Ginny-my-name-is-really-Virginia was showing signs of doubt. That was supposed to be a big red flag. Next there would be questions. Father hated questions.

“We can’t always rely on our parents to guide us in the correct direction,” Alice told her with a smile, sounding like a mother herself, and the girl nodded, pretending to know exactly what Alice meant, because Alice was too cool to disagree with or contradict.

Justin crossed his arms over his chest. It was all he could do to keep from rolling his eyes.

A scuffle at the bottom of the steps made them all jerk around, the girls rocking on ridiculous platform shoes while trying not to fall down the steps. Justin got to his feet, climbing a few more steps to get a better look. Down below, a James Dean look-alike was shoving at an older guy while he tried to yank the man’s camera out of his hands.

“Wow! He’s really cute,” the one called Ginny managed to say without a squeal.

Justin sat back down with a sigh of frustration that no one noticed. Leave it to fuckin’ Brandon to steal all the attention.

CHAPTER 8

Ben Garrison knew a thing or two about causing pain. The kid was younger and taller, but Ben knew he was stronger and definitely wiser. This hothead would last about five seconds if Ben shot a hand to his throat and squeezed in just the right place.

“No fucking reporters, Garrison. How many times do we have to tell you that?” the kid screamed at him.

He grabbed at Ben’s Leica, managing to yank the strap wrapped around Ben’s neck. The 35 mm camera was almost as old as Ben and probably tougher. Hell, it had survived a stampede of caribou in Manitoba and getting dropped in an Egyptian sand dune. It could certainly survive some pissed off religious freak.

“Why no reporters? What is your precious leader afraid of? Huh?” Ben egged him on. He knew this kid from the short visit he had paid to their camp at the foot of the Appalachian Mountains. Hell, he even kind of liked the kid. From what he had seen in the past, this kid, this Brandon, had a lot of passion, a lot of fire in his belly, but he didn’t have a clue as to what to do with it.

Brandon swiped at the camera again, and this time Ben gave him a shove that sent him onto his backside. Now the kid’s red face almost matched his red, goop-backed hair. He looked up at Ben like a bull, revving up and getting ready to charge. Ben could see his nostrils flaring and his hands balling into fists.

“Give it up, kid.” Ben laughed at him and snapped a couple of shots to prove the kid couldn’t rattle him. “Reverend Everett may have tossed me out of his hideout, but he isn’t gonna get rid of me that easy. Why doesn’t he send a real man to do a real man’s job?”

Brandon was back on his feet, his jaw and teeth clenched, his hands ready at his sides. Ben imagined little clouds of steam coming out of his ears like in the comic strips. The kid would need more than those accompanying bubbles of “Pow” and “Wham” to scare off Ben Garrison. Hell, he had survived an Aborigine’s blow dart and a Tutsi’s swipe of a machete. Like the Leica, he had seen a few death battles before, and this wasn’t one of them. Not even close. Poor kid. And with all his precious little friends watching. But there was no Reverend Everett to swoop in and save the souls of his little lost fools.

A crowd had gathered, hiking up the Jefferson Memorial steps to get a better look, but they kept their distance. Even the gang of young men, the redhead’s gang, circled like dogs in heat, but yellow-bellied dogs that stayed out of the way. Ben scratched his bristled jaw, bored with the whole thing. He had spent the afternoon getting some lame shots of tight-assed, hipless nymphettes. A few he had recognized. One he had even followed for a while, hoping for a risqué Enquirer shot, to embarrass her big-shot daddy. He’d stay and get a few of the prayer rally, with the precious, fucking Reverend Joseph Everett in action. This poor excuse of a rebel without a cause wouldn’t stop him. They couldn’t stop him, especially if they insisted on using public property.

He walked up several steps, leaving the hothead to snort and stomp and pretend to be choosing the godly thing of turning the other cheek. In the distance, Ben could see people starting to flock to the FDR Memorial.

It surprised him that Everett had chosen this spot for his rally in the District, especially over the Jefferson Memorial. Jefferson seemed more in tune with Everett’s philosophy of individual freedoms and limited government. Hell, hadn’t FDR put into place some of the very government programs Everett abhorred? The good reverend was a complicated piece of shit. But Ben was determined to expose the bastard for what he really was. And it would take more than this hotheaded punk to stop him.

CHAPTER 9

FBI Headquarters Washington, D.C.

Maggie waited for Keith Ganza to finish the work she had interrupted. He was used to her barging into his lab at FBI headquarters, whether invited or not—usually not. And although he grumbled about it, she knew he didn’t mind, even late on a Saturday afternoon when everyone else had already called it a day and left.

As the head of the FBI crime lab, Ganza had seen more in his thirty-plus years than any one person should ever see. Yet he seemed to take it all in stride, unruffled—unlike his outward appearance—by any of it. As Maggie waited and watched his tall, thin frame hunched over a microscope, she wondered if she had ever seen him in anything other than a white lab coat, or rather a yellowed-at-the-collar, wrinkled lab coat with sleeves too short for his long arms.

Maggie knew she shouldn’t be here—she should wait for the official report. But four-year-old Abby’s tenacity had only strengthened Maggie’s resolve to find out who was responsible for Delaney’s murder. Which reminded her—she pulled out a string of red licorice Abby had given her and began unwrapping it. Ganza stopped at the sound of crinkling plastic and glanced up at her over the microscope and over his half glasses that sat at the end of his nose. He looked at her with a familiar frown, one that remained in place, whether he was delivering a joke, talking about evidence or, in this case, staring at her impatiently.

“I haven’t eaten today,” she offered as an explanation.

“There’s half a tuna salad sandwich in the frig.”

She knew his offer to be generous and sincere, however, she had never gotten used to eating anything that had spent time on a shelf next to blood and tissue samples.

“No, thanks,” she told him. “I’m meeting Gwen in a little while for dinner.”

“So you buy licorice to tide you over?” Another frown.

“No. I got this at Agent Delaney’s funeral.”

“They were handing out red licorice?”

“His daughter was. Are you ready for me to interrupt you yet?”

“You mean you haven’t already?”

Her turn to frown. “Very funny.”

“I’m getting the file to A.D. Cunningham first thing Monday morning. Can’t you wait until then?”

Without answering, she folded the long string of licorice, holding it up in front of her to measure, then pulling it apart at the fold. She handed him one section of candy. He took the bribe without hesitation. Satisfied, he left his microscope, began nibbling at the candy and searched the counter for a file folder.

“It was potassium cyanide in the capsules. About ninety percent with a mixture of potassium hydroxide, some carbonate and a smidge of potassium chloride.”

“How difficult is it to get your hands on potassium cyanide these days?”

“Not difficult. It’s used in a lot of industries. Usually as a cleaning solution or fixative. It’s used in making plastics, some photographic development processes, even in fumigating ships. There was about seventy-five milligrams in the capsule the kid spit out. With little food in the digestive tract, that dose causes almost an instantaneous collapse and cessation of all respiration. Of course, that starts only after the plastic capsule is dissolved, but I’d say within minutes. Absorbs all the oxygen out of the cells. Not a pretty or fun way to die. The victims literally strangle to death from the inside out.”

“So why not just stick their guns in their mouths like most teenage boys who commit suicide?” Both images bothered Maggie, and Ganza raised his eyebrows at the impatience and sarcasm in her voice.

“You know the answer to that as well as I do. Psychologically it’s much easier to swallow a pill than pull the trigger, especially if you’re not so keen on the idea to begin with.”

“So you don’t think this was their idea?”

“Do you?”

“I wish it were that simple.” She ran her fingers through her hair, only now noticing the tangles. “They found a two-way radio inside the cabin, so they were in contact with someone. We just don’t know who. And, of course, there was a huge arsenal underneath the cabin.”

“Oh, yes, the arsenal.” Ganza opened a file folder and shuffled through several pages. “We were able to track the serial numbers on about a dozen of the weapons.”

“That was fast. I’m guessing they were stolen instead of bought at some gun show, right?”

“Not exactly.” He pulled out several documents. “You’re not going to like it.”

“Try me.”

“They came from a storage facility at Fort Bragg.”

“So they were stolen.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Then what exactly did you say?” She came to stand at his side, looking over his arm at the document he had extracted.

“The military never knew they were missing.”

“How is that possible?”

“They retired the weapons long ago, sent them to storage. Whoever got ahold of them would have had to have high-level clearance or some type of official access.”

“You’re kidding!”

“It gets even more interesting.” He handed her an envelope stamped Document Department and motioned for her to open it.

Maggie pulled out several sheets of paper, which included a land title from the state of Massachusetts for ten acres of property, as well as for a cabin and docking rights to the Neponset River.

“Great,” she said after scanning the copy. “So the land was donated to some nonprofit organization. These guys really know how to hide their tracks.”

“Not that unusual,” Ganza said. “A lot of these groups filter weapons and money, even property, through bogus NPOs. Saves them from paying taxes and allows them to thumb their noses at the government they profess to hate so much. That’s usually all they have the courage to do.”

“But this group is into more dangerous stuff than tax evasion. Whoever is behind this, this maniac’s willing to sacrifice his own men … boys, really.” Maggie flipped through the pages. “So what in the world is the Church of Spiritual Freedom? I’ve never heard of it before.” She looked back up at Ganza, who shrugged his bony shoulders. “What the hell did Delaney get in the middle of?”

CHAPTER 10

Justin wished he didn’t have to stay for the prayer rally. After all, they had worked all day to get a good crowd here. Didn’t they deserve a break? He was beat and starving. Would Father really be able to tell if he and Alice ducked out? Except he knew Alice would never go for it. She lived for these yawners and really seemed to get into the singing and clapping and hugging. Actually, he had to admit that he did enjoy the hugging. And tonight they had gathered some serious babes.

He watched Brandon talking to the blond bookends. Brandon was pointing at one of the granite walls. The one that had carved: Freedom of Speech, Freedom of Religion, Freedom From Want, Freedom From Fear. Justin had heard Father repeat those same words many times, especially when he got on a roll about the government and its conspiracies to suppress people. In fact, for a while Justin had thought the reverend had been the one who had come up with the words.

Whatever bullshit Brandon was telling them, Justin could tell the girls were eating it up. The tall one, Emma, kept flipping her hair back and tilting her head in that way high school girls must all learn in Flirting 101. Maybe that’s where they learned that fucking giggle, too.

“Hey, Justin.”

He felt a tap on his shoulder and turned to find Alice and the dark-eyed Ginny. The first thing he noticed was the big pretzel and can of Coke Ginny was holding. The smell of the pretzel made his stomach rattle. Both girls heard and laughed. Ginny handed him the pretzel.

“Want some?”

He glanced at Alice, checking for her disapproval, but she was looking in the other direction, looking for someone, and immediately he wondered if it was Brandon.

“Maybe just a bite,” he told Ginny.

He bent down and bit into the doughy pretzel, tugging a piece away while Ginny held it and pulled. It tasted wonderful, and he thought about asking for a second bite, but Ginny was already biting off a piece for herself from the same spot, licking her lips while her eyes met his. Jesus! She was coming on to him. He looked to see if Alice had noticed, but now she was waving to someone. He turned to find Father, flanked by his core group: several older women and one black man. Following close behind were three Arnold Schwarzenegger look-alikes, his bodyguards.

Justin thought Father looked more like a movie actor than a reverend. Earlier on the bus, he had even seen Cassie, Father’s beautiful black assistant, applying makeup to the reverend’s face. She had probably styled his hair, too. Father went way out for these rallies. Ordinarily, he wore his longish black hair slicked back, but today it stayed in place on its own, tucked neatly over his ears and collar just enough to be stylish and not shaggy. Later during the rally, when the man had what he called one of his “passionate moments,” strands of hair would fall onto his forehead, sorta reminding Justin of Elvis Presley when he got all shook up. He wondered if Father would mind the comparison. He certainly wouldn’t mind having people refer to him as “the King.”

The rest of Father looked like a well-paid business executive. Tonight he wore a charcoal-gray suit, white shirt and red silk tie. The suits always looked expensive. Justin could tell. They looked like something his dad would wear, probably several thousand dollars a pop. And there were the gold cuff links, a Rolex watch and gold tie bar, all gifts from rich donors. Sorta pissed Justin off. Why were there always donors to buy expensive jewelry, but when it came to toilet paper, they had to use old newspapers? And it was shreds of old newspaper, at that—pieces too small to even provide any college football scores.

The sun had just set, only pink-purple stains remaining, yet Father still wore his sunglasses. He took them off now as he approached. He smiled at Alice, reaching both his hands to her, waiting for her to do the same. Justin watched the reverend’s hands swallow Alice’s, his fingers overlapping onto her wrists and caressing her.

“Alice, my dear, who is your lovely guest?” He was smiling at Ginny, his eyes working their magic.

Ginny seemed flustered by the sudden attention, her hands clumsily trying to dispose of her pretzel and Coke. Justin started to offer to take them when she turned and tossed the precious pretzel into a nearby trash can. He wondered if everyone could hear his sigh of disappointment, but instead they were already mesmerized by Father’s charm. Justin moved aside, not wanting to risk being shoved aside by one of the Schwarzenegger triplets. It had happened to him once before.

He sat down on one of the benches. Everyone was watching Father now, including Brandon and the blond bookends. Except that Brandon looked a little pissed. Justin wondered if he hated Father stealing the attention away from him.

Father took each of Ginny’s hands, in the same way he had done with Alice, only now, probably because he knew he had everyone’s attention, he was making a fucking ceremony out of it. He looked into her eyes, smiling down at her and going on and on about what a beautiful young woman she was. Ginny was even smaller than Alice, so the reverend’s large hands practically wrapped around her entire forearms.

The skeptical Ginny, who had told them several times that her father would be so pissed if he knew she had come tonight, appeared to be eating up the attention. Justin had to admit the man was a charmer. a snake charmer. Just then, Father looked over at Justin and frowned.

Jesus! Justin thought. Maybe the guy really could read minds.

CHAPTER 11

Ginny Brier could barely hear the clapping and singing from down below. Dried leaves crackled underneath them and a twig poked into her thigh. But all she paid attention to was Brandon panting in her ear as he fumbled with her blouse buttons.

“Careful, don’t rip any,” she whispered, which only seemed to make his fingers more urgent and reckless.

The back of his neck was wet, but she continued to caress him there, hoping it would calm him, though she liked how hot and bothered she could make him. She wondered if perhaps he hadn’t done it in a long time or something. That would explain his fumbling. Or was he nervous they’d get caught? Did he worry that reverend guy would get mad if he found out? Actually, that was what turned Ginny on even more. She liked that this incredibly cool guy, who had been staring at her all evening, had come up behind her, taken her hand and led her around the back of the monument.

The sharp glare of the monument’s lights didn’t reach up here in the wooded area just above and behind the granite wall. If she listened closely, she could hear the waterfall below. But instead, she concentrated on Brandon’s heavy breathing. He had finally gotten through the button obstacle course and was ready to start on her bra. Suddenly, in one quick and rough motion, he grabbed the bottom of her bra and simply shoved it up over her breasts. She almost protested until his mouth devoured her and made her forget.

She reached down and undid his belt buckle, undoing the snap and his zipper in a smooth, almost expert motion. But he didn’t wait for her. He was taking himself out while pushing her back into the leaves. She tried to slow him down, whispering in his ear and rubbing his back and shoulders.

“Slow down, Brandon. Let’s enjoy this.”

But it was already too late. He hadn’t even made it all the way inside her when he exploded. In seconds he lay limp on top of her. More panting while he tried to catch his breath, drowning out Ginny’s exaggerated sigh of disappointment. Then he sat up, wiped his wet hair off his forehead and pulled his zipper up, all as casually as if he were getting dressed in the morning. Ginny felt as if she had become invisible. Why were the cute ones always the quick triggers and the insensitive shitheads?

“That’s it?” She unleashed her disappointment. She no longer cared if anyone heard her, though her voice couldn’t compete with the waterfall, the Reverend Yacky-Yack and the mind-numbing clapping.

He finally looked at her, his brown eyes black and empty in the shadows. It felt worse than being invisible. His look made her feel dirty. She pushed her bra back into place and tried to pull her skirt down, noticing that he had ripped the crotch of her underwear.

“You klutz.” She showed him the damage. “Now what am I supposed to do?”

“I don’t know. What do whores like you usually do afterward?”

She stared at him, stunned by his words. She needed to hold on to her anger, because without it, she would start to be frightened.

“You really are a bastard, aren’t you?” Two could play this word game, only his response this time came without words as his fist slammed into her mouth. Ginny fell into the leaves, grabbing at her jaw, and felt the blood trickling down her chin. She crawled out of his reach. Her anger was quickly replaced by fear.

“Leave me alone, or I swear I’ll scream.”

He laughed, then threw back his head to the stars and laughed louder, as if to prove no one would hear. And he was right. The singing below only made his laughter sound like a piece of the harmony.

He picked up her purse, wiped his hand over it to clear the debris and tossed it to her.

“Don’t forget to button your blouse before you come back down,” he told her, his voice suddenly calm and polite, almost solemn but so distant it gave her a chill. How was he able to do that? How could he disconnect like that? And so quickly.

She grabbed her purse and scooted farther away, leaning against a tree as if for protection. Without saying anything more, he turned and left, taking the same path they had used to come up.

Down below, she could hear a woman’s voice replace the good reverend’s, but Ginny didn’t pay attention to the words. Pretty soon there was more singing, even louder now, gaining volume as the night went along. They were singing something about coming home to a better place. What a bunch of losers.

Ginny breathed a sigh of relief. God, how stupid she had been this time. She bet that Justin guy wouldn’t treat a girl like this. Why was she always choosing the wrong ones? The bad-boy types? Maybe she did it simply because she knew it pissed off her dad and embarrassed the hell out of her soon-to-be step-mom. Not like they cared about her, only about their public images, their precious reputations. They screamed at each other in private and made cow eyes at each other in public. It was pathetic. At least she acted on her real emotions, her real feelings, wants and needs.

Something rustled in the bushes behind her. Did Brandon have a change of heart? Maybe he was coming back to apologize. Then she realized he had taken the path at the opposite end. She jerked around, scrambling to her feet and squinting into the dark.

Something moved. Something in the shadows. Oh, jeez! It was only a branch.

She needed to get the hell out of here before she scared herself to death. She reached down for her purse. Something whipped in front of her, a glowing cord that looped over her head. It pulled tight against her neck before she could grab at it.

Ginny tried to scream but it came out as a gasp, stuck in her throat. She choked and gulped for air. Her hands and fingers clawed at the cord, then clawed at the hands that held it. She dug her fingernails into skin, ripping at her own flesh, and still couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t stop it. Couldn’t keep it from tightening even more. Already she felt herself slipping to her knees. There were flashes of light behind her eyes. No air. She couldn’t breathe. Her feet kicked, then slipped out from under her. Now her neck bore all the weight as her body dangled on a single cord.

She couldn’t regain her balance. Couldn’t see. Couldn’t breathe. Her knees wouldn’t work. Her arms flayed. Her fingers dug even deeper into her own skin, but nothing helped. When blackness came, it came as a relief.

CHAPTER 12

Downtown Washington, D.C.

Gwen Patterson transferred the strap of her briefcase to the other shoulder and waited for Marco. She squinted into the dimly lit pub, the antique gas-flamed lanterns and candelabras preserving the historic atmosphere of the saloon. This late on a Saturday evening Gwen knew Old Ebbitt’s Grill would be free of all the politicos who usually hung out there, which would make getting a booth possible and would please her friend, Maggie O’Dell, who seemed to hate the political atmosphere of the District.

Ironically, the very things about the District that Maggie hated, Gwen thrived on. She couldn’t imagine living anywhere more exciting and loved her brownstone in Georgetown and her office overlooking the Potomac. She had lived here for more than twenty years, and though she had grown up in New York, the District was her home.

Marco smiled as soon as he saw her and waved her down the aisle to where he was standing.

“She beat you this time,” he said, and pointed to the booth at the end of the aisle where Maggie was already seated, a glass of Scotch on the table in front of her.

“Not like this is a first.” She winked at Maggie, who was always on time. Gwen was the late one.

Maggie smiled, watching Marco fawn over her, helping her with her coat, even taking the briefcase. He started to hang it from the brass hook beside their table, then thought better of it and leaned it carefully and safely inside their booth.

“What are you carrying around these days?” he complained. “Feels like a load of bricks.”

“Close. It’s a load of my new book.”

“Ah … yes, I forget that you are now a famous author as well as a famous shrink to the pundits and politicos.”

“I’m not sure about that famous-author part,” she told him as she smoothed her skirt with both hands and scooted into the booth. “I doubt that Investigating the Criminal Mind of Adolescent Males will make it onto the New York Times bestseller list anytime soon.”

Marco’s massive eyebrows rose, along with his hands, in mock surprise. “Such a large and weighty subject for such a small and beautiful woman.”

“Now, Marco, every time you flatter me like that I end up ordering the cheesecake.”

“Sweets for the sweet. Seems appropriate.”

This time Gwen rolled her eyes at him. He patted her shoulder and headed off to greet a pair of Japanese men waiting at the door.

“Sorry,” she said to Maggie. “We go through this every time.”

“It must pay off. He gave us the best booth in the place.”

Gwen sat back and took a long look at her friend. Maggie seemed pleasantly amused by the whole charade. Maybe it was simply the effects of the Scotch, because when Maggie had called earlier, she had sounded depressed, almost pained and stricken. She had told Gwen she was in the city and wanted to know if she had time for dinner. Gwen knew her friend had to be working. Maggie lived in Virginia, almost an hour away, in one of the District’s ritzy suburbs. She seldom drove into the city for recreation, least of all on the spur of the moment.

“How did the book signing go?” Maggie sipped her Scotch, and Gwen caught herself wondering if this was her first. Maggie noticed. “Don’t worry. This is my one and only. I need to drive home later.”

“The signing went well,” she said, deciding to bypass an opportunity to lecture Maggie about her newly acquired habit. The fact was, she worried about Maggie. She rarely saw her anymore without an accompanying glass of Scotch. “I’m always surprised how many people are interested in the strange and twisted minds of criminals.” She waved down a waiter and ordered a glass of chardonnay. Then to Maggie, she said, “I’ve been cabbing it all day, so I get more than one.”

“Cheater.”

Gwen was relieved that Maggie could still joke about it, especially after their last dinner together when Gwen had suggested Maggie needed the Scotch more than she wanted it. Gwen had gotten off with only a glare that told her to butt out. Useless, really. Maggie was stuck with her friendship, and with it—whether she liked it or not—came a buttinsky maternal instinct that Gwen couldn’t even explain to herself.

Gwen was fifteen years older than Maggie, and ever since the two met, back when Maggie was a forensic intern at Quantico and Gwen a consulting psychologist, Gwen had felt a protectiveness toward Maggie that she had never experienced before. She had always believed she didn’t have a maternal bone in her body. But for some reason she became the proverbial mama bear, ready to claw the eyes out of anyone who threatened to hurt Maggie.

Now Gwen shoved her menu aside, ready to play psychologist, friend and mother. She hadn’t learned how to separate those roles. So what if she never did. Maggie could use someone to look after her, whether she believed it or not.

“What brought you to the city? Something at headquarters?”

Maggie worked out of Quantico in the Behavioral Science Unit and rarely made it to FBI headquarters at Ninth and Pennsylvania Avenue.

Maggie nodded. “Just got back from visiting Ganza. But I was out at Arlington before that. Today was Agent Delaney’s funeral.”

“Oh, Maggie. I didn’t realize.” Gwen watched her friend, who was doing an excellent job of avoiding Gwen’s eyes, sipping her Scotch, rearranging the cloth napkin on her lap. “Are you okay?”

“Sure.”

It came too quickly and too easily, which for Maggie meant “No, of course not.” Gwen waited out the silence, hoping for more. Maggie opened her menu. Okay, so this was going to take some pulling and prodding. Not a problem. Gwen had a Ph.D. in pulling and prodding, though officially her certificate called it a Ph.D. in psychology. Same difference.

“On the phone, you sounded like you needed to talk.”

“Actually, I’m working a case and could use your professional insight.”

Gwen checked Maggie’s eyes. That’s not what she meant earlier on the phone or she would have said so. Okay, so if her friend wanted to talk shop and put off the real stuff, Gwen could be patient. “What’s the case?”

“The standoff at the cabin. Cunningham wants a criminal profile of these guys, so that we might connect them to whatever organization they belong to. Because six young men certainly didn’t do this on their own.”

“Right. Yes, of course. I read something about that in the Washington Times.”

“And the criminal psychology of adolescent male minds is your new specialty,” Maggie said with a smile that Gwen recognized as pride. “Why would six teenage boys put down their guns, take cyanide capsules and then lie down and wait to die?”

“Without knowing any of the details, my first reaction is that it wasn’t their idea. They simply did what they were told or instructed to do by someone they feared.”

“Feared?” Maggie looked suddenly interested, leaning in, elbows on the table, her chin on her hands. “Why do you automatically say feared? Why not because they believed so strongly in their cause? Isn’t that the reasoning behind most of these groups?”

A waiter delivered Gwen’s glass of chardonnay and she thanked him. She wrapped her hands around the glass and set the wine swirling. “At that age they don’t necessarily know what they believe. Their opinions, their ideas are still easily molded and manipulated. But boys usually have a natural tendency to fight back. There’s actually a physiological reason for that.”

Gwen sipped her wine. She didn’t want to sound like she was lecturing Maggie on something she already knew, but her friend seemed eager to hear more, so she continued, “It’s not just their higher levels of testosterone, but boys have lower levels of the neurotransmitter serotonin. And serotonin inhibits aggression and impulsivity. That could explain why more males—especially adolescent males—than females carry through with suicide, become alcoholics or shoot up school yards as a way to solve their problems.”

“Also why their first instinct when trapped in a cabin with an arsenal of guns would be to think they could impulsively shoot their way out.” Maggie sat back and shrugged. “Which brings me back to the same question, why lie down and die?”

“Which brings me to my same answer.” Gwen smiled. “Fear. Someone may have had them convinced they had no alternative.” Gwen watched as Maggie cradled the Scotch. “But you already knew most of that, didn’t you? Come on, now, I’m not telling you anything new here. Why did you really call me for dinner? What do you really need to talk about?”

The silence continued longer than Gwen normally allowed.

“To be honest—” Maggie grabbed the menu again and avoided Gwen’s eyes “—I’m really, really hungry.” But she glanced over the top and managed a tense smile at Gwen’s frown. “And I needed to be with a friend, okay? A living, breathing, wonderful friend whom I absolutely adore.”

This time Gwen got a glimpse at Maggie’s deep brown eyes. They were serious, even a tad watery, which was why she went back to hiding them behind the menu. Gwen could see she was trying to cover up a vulnerability that had slipped too close to the surface; a vulnerability that the tough Maggie O’Dell worked hard to keep to herself and harder to conceal from others, even from her living, breathing, wonderful friends.

“You should try the hickory burger,” Gwen said, pointing to the menu.

“A burger? The gourmet is recommending a burger?”

“Hey! Not just any burger, but the best damn burger in town.” She saw Maggie relax. The smile genuine now. Okay, so Gwen would pull and prod next time. Tonight they would eat burgers, have a couple of drinks and simply be living, breathing friends.

CHAPTER 13

He needed to sit. The haze seemed thicker this time. Had he taken too much of his homemade concoction? He needed it only to enhance, only to help him see beyond the dark. He certainly didn’t need this. He needed to sit. Yes, sit and wait for the haze to move from back behind his eyes.

He’d sit and concentrate on his breathing, just as he was taught to do. He would ignore the anger. Wait. Was it anger? Frustration, maybe. Disappointment, yes. But not anger. Anger was a negative energy. Beneath him. No, it was simply frustration. And why wouldn’t he be frustrated? He honestly thought this one would last longer. She had certainly tried. And he was almost sure that on the third time he had seen it. Yes, he was quite certain he had seen the light behind her eyes, that glimmer, that flash, that moment of life escaping the body, just as she drew her final breath. Yes, he had seen it and he had come so close.

Now it would be days, maybe even a week before he could try again. He was running out of patience. Why the fuck did she have to give in so soon? One more chance was all he needed. He had been so close. So close that he didn’t want to wait.

He gripped the book and let the feel of its leather binding soothe him. He sat on a hard bench in a dim corner of the terminal, ignoring the screech of hydraulic brakes, the endless clacking of heels rushing, bodies shoving—all of them in such a fucking hurry to get where they were going.

He closed his eyes against the lifting haze and listened. He hated the noise. Hated the smells even more—diesel fuel and something that smelled like dirty wet socks. And body odor. Yes, body odor from the assholes who abandoned their cardboard homes in the alley to venture in and beg for pocket change. Worthless assholes.

He opened his eyes, pleased that his vision was clearing. No more haze. He watched one of the worthless assholes by the vending machines, checking the return slots for change. Was it a woman? It was difficult to tell. She wore everything she owned, layer after filthy layer, pant cuffs dragging behind her, adding to the slow motion of her absent shuffle. Her ragged and stretched-out stocking cap gave a crooked point to her head and made her dirty blond hair stick out like straw. Such a coward. No survival instinct. No dignity. No soul.

He lay the book in his lap and let it fall open to the page where he had left his homemade bookmark—an unused airline ticket, creased at the corners and long expired. He needed to let the book calm him. It had worked before, the words offering guidance and inspiration, even direction and justification. Already his hands grew steady.

He pulled his shirt cuff down over the caked blood. She had scratched him good. It had hurt like hell, but nothing he couldn’t ignore for the time being. He’d wash his hands later. Right now, he needed to feel some sense of completion and validation. He needed to calm the frustration and find some reserve of patience. Yet, all he could think about was having come so close to his goal. He didn’t want to wait. If only he could find a way so he didn’t need to wait.

Just then the pointy-headed loser stuck her smelly, gloved hand in his face. “Can you spare a dollar or two?”

He looked up into her smudged face and realized she was quite young, maybe even once attractive underneath that dirt and smell of decay, of rotten and sour garbage. He searched her eyes—clear, crystal blue and, yes, there was light behind them. No hollow look of despair. Not yet. Maybe he didn’t need to wait, after all.

CHAPTER 14

Newburgh Heights, Virginia

The cold wind pricked at Maggie’s skin, but she continued running, welcoming the sensation. Delaney’s death had triggered a swell of emotions that she hadn’t anticipated, that she wasn’t prepared to deal with. And his funeral had released an avalanche of memories from her childhood, memories she had worked long and hard to keep safely behind a barrier. The battle to contain them left her feeling numb one minute and angry the next. Amazing that both emotions could be so exhausting. Or perhaps the exhaustion came from keeping them concealed, shoving them down away from the surface, so that no one could witness how easily she could feel nothing one moment and explode the next. No one, that is, except Gwen.

Maggie knew her friend could sense her vulnerabilities, despite Maggie’s effort to hide them. It was one of the curses of their friendship, a comfort as much as an annoyance. Sometimes she wondered why the hell Gwen put up with her, and at the same time, she didn’t want to know the answer. Instead, she was simply grateful for this wise, loving mentor who could take one look into her eyes, see all the turmoil, sift through the hidden wreckage and somehow manage to inspire strength and good from some reserve Maggie hadn’t even known existed. And tonight Gwen had been able to do all that without a single word. Now, if only Maggie could hold on to that strength.

When she first became a criminal profiler she thought she could learn how to compartmentalize her feelings and emotions, separate the horrors and images she witnessed as part of the job from her personal life. Not that Quantico taught them such a thing. But since she had done it all her life with the unpleasant memories and images of her childhood, why wouldn’t she be able to do it with her career? The only problem was that every time she thought she had the technique down pat, one of those damn compartments sprung a leak. It was annoying as hell. Especially annoying that Gwen could see it no matter how hard Maggie tried to hide it from her.

She picked up the pace. Harvey panted alongside her. The big dog wouldn’t complain. Ever since she had taken him in, he had become her shadow. The pure white Labrador retriever had become a bit overprotective with her, jumping at sounds that Maggie never heard, barking at footsteps whether they belonged to the mailman or the pizza-delivery person. But then Maggie could hardly blame him.

Last spring the dog had witnessed his owner being violently kidnapped from their home, by a serial killer named Albert Stucky, who Maggie had already put in jail once and who had escaped. And though Harvey had put up a good fight, he hadn’t been able to stop the attacker. For months after Maggie had taken him in, he looked out the windows of Maggie’s huge Tudor home, looking, waiting for his owner. When he realized she wouldn’t return, he attached himself to Maggie with such a protectiveness that she wondered if perhaps the dog was determined not to lose a second owner.

What would Harvey think if he knew, if he could possibly understand, that his previous owner had been taken and killed simply because she had met Maggie? It was Maggie’s fault that Albert Stucky had taken Harvey’s owner. It was one of the things she had to live with, one of the things that caused her nightmares. And one of the things that was supposed to have its own little compartment.

Her breathing came in rhythmic gasps, timed to the pounding of her feet and the beat of her heart, which filled her ears. For a few minutes her mind cleared, and she concentrated instead on her body’s basic responses, its natural rhythms, its force. She pushed it to its limit, and when she felt her legs strain, she pushed harder, faster. Then suddenly, she noticed Harvey favoring his front right paw though he didn’t dare slow down, forcing himself to stay alongside her. Maggie came to an abrupt halt, surprising him with a tug of the leash.

“Harvey.” She stopped to catch her breath, and he waited, cocking his head. “What’s wrong with your paw?”

She pointed to it, and he crouched to the ground as if preparing for a scolding. She gently took the big paw in both her hands. Even before she turned it over she felt a prick. Embedded deep between his pads was a clump of sandburs.

“Harvey.” She hadn’t meant for it to sound like a scold, but he cowered closer to the ground.

She scratched behind his ears, letting him know he had done nothing wrong. He hated having these things pulled out, preferring to hide and endure the pain. But Maggie had learned how to be quick and efficient. She grabbed the clump between her fingernails, instead of fingertips, and gave one quick yank. Immediately, he rewarded those same fingers with grateful licks.

“Harvey, you need to let me know about these things as soon as you get them. I thought we agreed that neither of us would play hero anymore.”

He listened while he licked, one ear perched higher than the other.

“So do we have a deal?”

He looked up at her and gave one sharp bark. Then he climbed to his feet, ready to run again, his entire hind end wagging.

“How ‘bout we take it easy the rest of the way?” She knew she had pushed it a bit too hard. As she stood and stretched, she could feel a cramp threatening her calf. Yes, they’d walk the rest of the way, despite the wind chilling her sweat-drenched body and making her shiver.

A bulging orange moon peeked from behind a line of pine trees and the ridge that separated Maggie’s new neighborhood from the rest of the world. The houses were set far back off the street with enough property and landscaping between them to make it difficult to see the next-door neighbors. Maggie loved the seclusion and privacy. Though without any streetlights, darkness came quickly. It still freaked her out a bit to run after dark. There were too many Albert Stuckys out there. And even though she knew he was dead—that she’d killed him herself—she still sometimes ran with her Smith & Wesson tucked in her waistband.

Before she got to her long circular driveway, she saw a glimmer of windshield. She recognized the spotless white Mercedes and wanted to turn around. If he hadn’t seen her, she might have done just that. But Greg waved from the portico, leaning against its railing as if he owned the house.

“It’s a little late to be out running, isn’t it?” This was his greeting, which sounded more like a scolding, and she found herself flinching instinctively, just as Harvey had earlier. The gesture represented a microcosm of their relationship, which had been reduced to instinctive survival tactics, and Greg still wondered why she wanted a divorce?

“What do you need, Greg?”

He looked like he had stepped off the pages of GQ. He was dressed in a dark suit, with sharp creases she could see even in the moon’s dim light, not a wrinkle in sight. His golden hair was moussed and styled, not a strand out of place. Yes, her soon-to-be ex-husband was certainly handsome, no question about that. She knew he must be on his way home from dinner with friends or business associates. Maybe he had a date, and immediately she wondered how she would feel about that. Relieved, was her quick and easy answer.

“I don’t need anything.” He sounded hurt, and she saw him shift to his defensive stance, another survival tactic in his own arsenal. “I just thought I should check up on you.”

As they got closer, Harvey started growling, his signal that warned of any stranger on their property.

“Good Lord!” Greg backed up, only now noticing Harvey. “That’s the dog you took in?”

“Why are you checking up on me?”

But Greg was now preoccupied with Harvey. Maggie knew he hated dogs, though while they were together he had made excuses that he was allergic to them. Seemed the only thing he was allergic to was Harvey’s growl.

“Greg.” She waited until she had his attention. “Why are you here?”

“I heard about Richard.”

Maggie stared at him, waiting for more of an explanation. When one didn’t come, she said, “It happened days ago.” She stopped herself from adding that if he was so concerned, why did he wait until now.

“Yeah, I know. I did hear about it on the news, but the name didn’t ring a bell with me right away. Then I talked to Stan Wenhoff this morning about a case I’m representing. He told me about what happened at the morgue.”

“He told you about that?” Maggie couldn’t believe it. She wondered who else he had told.

“He was just concerned about you, Maggie. He knows we’re married.”

“We’re getting a divorce,” she corrected him.

“But we’re still married.”

“Please, Greg. It’s been a long day and a long week. I don’t need any lectures. Not tonight, okay?” She marched past him to the front door, letting Harvey lead, so that Greg moved out of the way.

“Maggie, I really did just stop to see if you’re okay.”

“I’m fine.” She unlocked the door and hurried to reset the buzzing alarm system inside the entrance.

“You could be a little more grateful. I did come all this way.”

“Next time, perhaps you should call first.”

She was ready to close the door on him, when he said,

“That could have been you, Maggie.”

She stopped and leaned against the doorjamb, looking up at him and into his eyes. His perfect forehead was creased with concern. His eyes startled her with flecks of dampness she didn’t recognize.

“When Stan told me about Richard … well, I …” He kept his voice low and quiet, almost a whisper, and there was an emotion in it she hadn’t heard for years. “The first thing I thought of was, what if it had been you?”

“I can take care of myself, Greg.” Her job had been an ongoing debate in their marriage—no, argument was a better word. It had been an ongoing argument between the two of them for the last several years. She wasn’t in the mood for any “I told you sos.”

“I bet Richard thought he could take care of himself, too.” He stepped closer and reached to caress her cheek, but Harvey’s growl cut the gesture short. “It made me realize how much I still care about you, Maggie.”

She closed her eyes and sighed. Damn it! She didn’t want to hear this. When she opened her eyes, he was smiling at her.

“Why don’t you come with me. I can wait while you get ready.”

“No, Greg.”

“I’m meeting my brother, Mel and his new wife. We’re gonna have a nightcap at their hotel.”

“Greg, don’t—”

“Come on, you know Mel adores you. I’m sure he’d love to see you again.”

“Greg.” She wanted to tell him to stop, that she wouldn’t be meeting with him and Mel probably ever again. That their marriage was over. That there was no going back. But those watery gray eyes of his seemed to replace her anger with sadness. She thought of Delaney and of his wife, Karen, who had hated Delaney’s career choice as much as Greg hated hers. So instead, she simply said, “Maybe some other time, okay? It’s late and I’m really wiped out tonight.”

“Okay,” he said, hesitating.

For a minute she worried that he might try to kiss her. His eyes strayed from hers to her mouth, and she felt her back tense up against the doorjamb. Yet in that moment of hesitation, she realized she wouldn’t resist the gesture, and that revelation surprised her. What the hell was wrong with her? There was no need to worry, however. Harvey’s renewed growl cut short any attempt at intimacy, drawing away Greg’s attention.

He scowled at Harvey, then smiled back at Maggie. “Hey, at least you don’t have to worry about security with him around.”

He turned to leave, then spun back around. “Oh, I almost forgot,” he said, pulling a clump of torn and wrinkled papers from his jacket’s inside breast pocket. “These must have blown out of your garbage can. The wind was nuts today.” He handed her what she recognized as several ripped ad inserts, stuffers from her credit card statements and a notice about her Smart Money magazine subscription. “Maybe you need tighter lids,” he added. Typical Greg, practical Greg, not able to resist the chance to correct or advise her.

“Where did you find these?”

“Just under that bush.” He pointed to the bayberry along the side of the house as he headed to his car. “Bye, Maggie.”

She watched him wave and waited for him to get inside, predicting his routine of checking his reflection in the rearview mirror, followed by one quick swipe at his already perfect hair. She waited until his car was down the street and out of her sight, then she took Harvey and rounded the garage. Instantly, the lights rigged to the motion detector came on, revealing the two galvanized steel garbage cans, lined up exactly where she kept them, side by side, securely against the garage wall, each can with its lid tightly intact.

She glanced through the pieces of crumpled paper, again. She shredded the important stuff, so she didn’t need to worry. She was always careful. Still, it was a bit unnerving to know that someone had bothered to go through her garbage. What in the world had they hoped to find?

CHAPTER 15

Washington, D.C.

Ben Garrison dropped his duffel bag inside the door of his apartment. Something smelled. Had he forgotten to take out the damn garbage again?

He stretched and groaned. His back ached, and his head throbbed. He rubbed the knot at his right temple, surprised to find it still there. Shit! It still hurt like a bitch. At least his hair covered it. Not like he cared. He just hated people asking a lot of goddamn questions that weren’t any of their business to begin with. Like that yappy old broad on the Metro, sitting next to him. She smelled like death. It was enough to make him get off early and take a cab the rest of the way home—a luxury he rarely allowed himself. Cabs were for wusses.

Now all he wanted was to crawl into bed, close his eyes and sleep. But he’d never be able to until he knew whether or not he had gotten any decent shots. Oh, hell, sleep was for wusses, too.

He grabbed the duffel bag and spilled its contents onto the kitchen counter, his large hands catching three canisters before they rolled off the edge. Then he began sorting the black film canisters according to the dates and times marked on their lids.

Out of the seven rolls, five were from today. He hadn’t realized he had shot so many, though lack of lighting remained his biggest problem. And the lighting around the monuments was often too harsh in places while too dark in certain corners. He usually found himself in the dark corners and shadows where he hated to risk using a flash, but did, anyway. At least the cloud covering from earlier in the day was gone. Maybe his luck was changing.

There was so much left to chance in this business. He constantly tried to eliminate as many obstacles as possible. Unfortunately, dark was dark and sometimes even high-speed film or that new infrared crap couldn’t cut through the black.

He gathered the film canisters and headed for the closet he had converted into a darkroom. Suddenly the phone startled him. He hesitated but had no intention of picking it up. He had stopped answering his phone months ago when the crank calls began. Still, he waited and listened while the answering machine clicked on and the machine voice instructed the caller to leave a message after the beep.

Ben braced himself, wondering what absurdity it would be this time. Instead, a familiar man’s voice said, “Garrison, it’s Ted Curtis. I got your photos. They’re good but not much different from my own guys’. I need something different, something nobody else is running. Call when you’ve got something, okay?”

Ben wanted to throw the canisters across the room. Everybody wanted something different, some fucking exclusive. It had been almost two years since his photos of dead cows outside Manhattan, Kansas, broke the story about a possible anthrax epidemic. Before that, he had been on a roll, as if luck was his middle name. Or at least, that was how he explained being outside that tunnel when Princess Diana’s car crashed. Wasn’t it also luck that put him in Tulsa the day of the Oklahoma City bombing? Within hours he was there, shooting exclusives and sending photos over the wires to the top bidders.

For several years afterward, everything he shot seemed to be gold, with newspapers and magazines calling him nonstop. Sometimes they were just checking to see what he had available that week. He went anywhere he wanted and shot anything that interested him from warring African tribes to frogs with legs sprouting out of their fucking heads. And everything got snatched up almost as quickly as he could develop the prints. All because they were his photographs.

Lately, things were different. Maybe his luck had simply run dry. He was fucking tired of trying to be in the right place at the right time. He was tired of waiting for news to happen. Maybe it was time to make some of his own. He squeezed the canisters in his hands. These had better be good.

Just as he turned for the darkroom again, he noticed the answering machine flashing twice, indicating a message other than Curtis’s. Okay, so maybe Parentino or Rubins liked the photos that Curtis didn’t want.

Without emptying his hands, he punched the messageplay button with his knuckle.

“You have two messages,” the mechanical voice recited, grating on his nerves. “First message recorded at 11:45 p.m., today.”

Ben glanced at the wall clock. He must have just missed the first call before he came in.

There was a click and a pause, maybe a wrong number. Then a young woman’s polite voice said, “Mr. Garrison, this is the customer service office at Yellow Cab. I hope you enjoyed your ride with us this evening.”

The film canisters slipped to the floor and scattered in different directions while Ben grabbed the countertop. He stared at the answering machine. No cab company on this planet called its passengers to see if they enjoyed their ride. No, it had to be them. Which meant they had moved from crank calls to watching him. And now they wanted him to know they were watching.

CHAPTER 16

Justin Pratt waited outside the McDonald’s rest room. Who’d think the place would be this busy at this time of night? But where else were kids supposed to hang out? Shit! What he wouldn’t do for a Big Mac. The smell of French fries made his mouth water and his stomach ache.

He had carelessly suggested to Alice that they grab a bite to eat. Even before her nose crinkled and she gave him that exasperated look, he knew she wouldn’t agree. That was one of the things he admired: her unflinching self-discipline. Yet, at the same time, what would it hurt to have one fucking cheeseburger?

He needed to watch his language. He glanced around again. It was becoming a habit for him to check that no one could hear his thoughts. What the hell was wrong with him? He was creeping himself out.

He couldn’t believe how jumpy he was. It was as if he had no control over his body or his thoughts. He scratched his jaw and combed his fingers through his greasy hair. He hated taking timed showers. The water never got warm, and this morning his two minutes were up before he could get the shampoo out of his hair.

He leaned against the wall and crossed his arms over his chest to stop his fidgeting. What was taking her so long? He knew part of the jumpiness had to be withdrawal from nicotine and caffeine. No cigarettes, no coffee, no cheeseburgers—Jesus! Was he out of his fucking mind?

Just then, Alice came out of the rest room. She had tied back her long blond hair, revealing more of her smooth white skin and her pouty lips, lips cherry-red without the aid of any cosmetics. When her green eyes met his, they sparkled, and she smiled at him like no one had ever smiled at him before. And once again, none of what he had given up mattered, as long as this beautiful angel continued to smile at him like that.

“Any sign of Brandon?” she asked, and immediately Justin felt wrenched from his temporary fantasy.

“No, not yet.” He stared out the window, pretending to watch.

Fact was, he had forgotten about Brandon, and even now, didn’t care if he showed up. He couldn’t figure out how the hell his brother, Eric, had been such good friends with the guy. Brandon wasn’t anything like Eric. In fact, he wished Brandon would just sorta disappear off the face of the earth. He was sick of him and his macho Casanova, oh-look-at-me-I’m-so-cool attitude. He didn’t care if he was supposedly some precious Father-in-training.

Justin also couldn’t understand why Brandon had to tag along everywhere he and Alice went. The guy could have any girl he wanted. Why couldn’t he leave Alice the fuck alone? Except that Justin knew Father insisted members never travel anywhere alone. And since Justin wasn’t a full-fledged member yet, anyone with him would still be considered traveling alone.

Eric had attempted to explain all the rules and crap to him, but then Father sent Justin out into the woods for almost a week. Father had called it an initiation ritual, and Eric hadn’t argued with the man. Although Justin still wasn’t sure what camping out, sleeping on the ground and eating cold canned beans had to do with being initiated into anything.

Luckily, he had wandered into Shenandoah National Park, and some campers ended up taking him in—fed him pretty damn well, too. He worried he had put on weight instead of looking the emaciated, frightened fledgling that Father had hoped would return. Unfortunately, when he got back, Eric was gone, off on some top-secret mission that no one could tell him about. He hated all the cloak-and-dagger shit. It felt as goddamn stupid as it sounded.

Alice scooted into a corner booth to wait. Justin hesitated. He really wanted to sit next to her. He could use the excuse that he needed to watch for Brandon, but Alice was already doing that, watching so intently he found himself hating Brandon for drawing away her attention.

Justin slid into the booth on the opposite side. He surveyed the restaurant, checking to see if anyone cared that they take up a booth when they hadn’t ordered anything. The place was filled with late-night customers getting their Saturday-night junk-food fix. It was long past dinnertime. No wonder his stomach ached. The bite of Ginny’s pretzel was all he’d had since lunch. And not like that gummy rice and beans they fed him would last, despite it feeling like it stuck to the inside walls of his stomach. How the hell did they eat that crap day after day? And since they were on the road, today’s ration had been served cold. Yuck! He could still taste it.

Realizing it might take a while, Alice wiggled out of her jacket. Justin followed her lead, trying not to stare at her incredible tits. Yet, he couldn’t stop thinking how hot she looked in that tight pink sweater.

She reached into her jacket pocket and brought out the bulging leather pouch, clumping it down on the table and making the quarters chink against one another. Justin thought about asking if they could, at least, get a couple of Cokes. She had used only one quarter for the phone call that seemed to be a big part of their mission. But then Alice had left just a short message, some weird code about a cab ride.

Justin didn’t try to figure it out. Truth was, he didn’t much care about the group’s politics or religious beliefs. Or even their travel arrangements, for that matter. He simply wanted to be with Alice. Not like he had any place better to be.

He had been gone almost a month, and he doubted that his parents gave a fuck that he wasn’t around. Maybe they hadn’t even noticed he was gone. They certainly didn’t seem to care when Eric left home. All his dad said was that Eric was old enough to screw up his own life, if that’s what he wanted to do. But Justin didn’t want to think about them. Not now. Not when he was sitting across the table from the only person who had ever made him feel like he was someone special.

Alice smiled at him again, but this time she pointed over his shoulder.

“Here he is.”

Brandon slid into the booth next to Alice, taking up too much space and squeezing Alice against the wall. She didn’t seem to mind, but Justin felt his hands clenching into fists, so he kept them in his lap under the table.

“Sorry I’m late,” Brandon muttered, though Justin knew he didn’t mean it. He knew guys like Brandon said “sorry” like some people asked “how are you?”

Justin examined the tall redhead, who reminded him of that dead actor in all those rebel movies—James Dean. Brandon’s head pivoted, his eyes looking everywhere except at the two of them. Justin glanced over his shoulder. Was Brandon worried someone had followed him? It sure as hell looked like it. His eyes kept darting all over the place. If Justin didn’t know better, he’d think Brandon was high on something. Except that was impossible. Brandon pretended to be a rebel, but he wouldn’t dare cross Father. And drugs were forbidden.

“We need to get back to the bus,” Alice politely and quietly instructed them. “The others will be waiting.”

“Give me a chance to catch my breath.” Brandon saw the pouch of quarters and reached for it. “I could use something to drink.”

Justin waited for Alice to scold Brandon in her soft, strict way. Instead, she stared at his hands. Then Justin noticed what had stopped Alice. Brandon’s left knuckle had something caked on it. Something dark and red that looked an awful lot like blood.

CHAPTER 17

Reston, Virginia

R.J. Tully held down the button on the remote and watched the TV’s channels flip one after another after another. Nothing on the screen could distract him from the clock on the wall—the clock that now showed twenty minutes after midnight. Emma was late! Another night of breaking curfew. No more Mr. Nice Guy, no matter what her excuse. It was time for RoboDad. If only it were possible to access some mechanical part inside himself and let it take over without emotion getting in the way.

Nights like this made him miss Caroline the most. Probably a sign that parenthood had driven him completely over the edge. After all, shouldn’t a red-blooded guy miss his ex-wife’s sexy, long legs or even her to-die-for lasagne? There was a whole list of more likely things than missing her ability to sit next to him and reassure him that their daughter was just fine.

Caroline had always been so creative in their plans for punishing Emma, zooming in on the one thing she knew would bug the hell out of their daughter. Simple things like making her sort all the household socks for the entire month. Stuff he’d never dream of in a million years. Sorting socks was fine when Emma was eight or nine and caught riding her bike past the territorial limits they had set. But at fifteen, it was increasingly difficult to get her attention, let alone find meaningful ways of disciplining her.

He scraped a hand over his face, attempting to wipe away the sleep and the brewing anger. He was just tired. That’s why he was irritable. He left the TV on Fox News and traded the remote for the bag of corn chips he’d left on the secondhand coffee table. He had to sit up to make the exchange, and only now did he notice the remnants of his previous snack attack crumbling out from the folds of his Cleveland Indians T-shirt. Jeez! What a mess. But he made no effort to clean it up. Instead he sank back into the recliner. How much more pathetic could he get? Sitting here on a Saturday night, eating junk food and watching the late night news?

Most days he didn’t have time to feel sorry for himself. However, Caroline’s earlier phone call had set him on edge. No, actually, it had pissed him off. She wanted Emma for Thanksgiving, and was sending the airline tickets by FedEx on Monday.

“It’s all been worked out and scheduled,” she had told him. “Emma’s looking forward to it.”

All worked out and scheduled before she even checked with him. He had custody of Emma, something Caroline had willingly agreed to when she decided having a teenage daughter had become an inconvenience to her as a CEO and new dating-game member. She knew Tully could say no to a Thanksgiving trip, and she wouldn’t have a legal foot to stand on. So, of course, she had planned it beforehand with Emma, getting the girl excited, using her as a pawn. That way Tully had no choice but to agree to the trip. The woman headed an internationally successful advertising agency, why wouldn’t she be an expert at manipulation?

Putting his feelings aside, Tully knew Emma needed to spend time with her mother. There were things that only mothers and daughters should discuss, things Tully felt totally inept at, not to mention downright uncomfortable with. Caroline wasn’t the most responsible person in the world, but she did love Emma. Maybe Tully was simply feeling sorry for himself, because this would be the first Thanksgiving he would spend alone in more than twenty years.

A car door slammed. Tully sat up, grabbed the remote and turned down the TV’s volume. Another car door slammed, and this time he was certain it came from his driveway. Okay, he needed to put on his stern expression, his I’m-so-disappointed-in-you face. But what punishment had he decided on? Oh, crap! He hadn’t come up with anything. He slumped into the recliner again, pretending to be caught up in the news as he heard the front door unlock.

There were more than one set of footsteps in his entrance. He twisted around in the recliner and saw Alesha’s mother coming in behind Emma. Oh, jeez! What the hell happened this time?

He stood, brushing more crumbs from his T-shirt and jeans, running his fingers through his hair and quickly swiping his mouth. He probably looked like hell. Mrs. Edmund looked impeccable as usual.

“Mr. Tully, sorry to interrupt.”

“No, I appreciate you doing the chauffeuring tonight.” He watched Emma but couldn’t decide if her discomfort was embarrassment or worry. These days anything he said or did in front of her friends or her friends’ parents appeared to embarrass her.

“I just wanted to come in and let you know that it’s my fault Emma’s late in getting home tonight.”

Tully continued to watch Emma out of the corner of his eyes. The girl was an expert manipulator, just like her mother. Had she put Mrs. Edmund up to this? Finally, he crossed his arms over his chest and gave his full attention to the petite blonde, an older mirror image of her own daughter. If she had hoped to cover for Emma without providing an explanation, she was mistaken.

He waited. Mrs. Edmund fidgeted with her purse strap and pushed back an unruly strand of hair. Usually people didn’t act nervous unless they were guilty of something. Tully didn’t bother to fill the discomforting silence, despite seeing Emma squirm. He smiled at Mrs. Edmund and waited.

“They wanted to go to a rally at one of the monuments instead of going to a movie. I thought it would be okay. But afterward, traffic was just nuts. I hate driving in the District. I got lost a couple of times. It was just a mess.” She stopped and looked up at him as if checking to see if that was sufficient. She continued, “Then I couldn’t find them. We crossed wires as to the exact place I’d pick them up. Thank God, it didn’t rain. And all that traffic—”

Tully held up a hand to stop her. “I’m just grateful you’re all safe and sound. Thanks again, Mrs. Edmund.”

“Oh, please, you must start calling me Cynthia.”

He could see Emma roll her eyes.

“I’ll try to remember that. Thanks so much, Cynthia.” He escorted her out the front door, waiting on the steps until she made it safely into her car. Alesha waved at him and her mother joined in, the distraction almost causing the woman to back into his mailbox.

When he stepped back inside, Emma was in his spot, a leg over the recliner arm and channel surfing. He snagged the remote, shut the TV off and stood in front of her.

“You made Mrs. Edmund drive all the way into the District? What happened to going to a movie?”

“We met some kids during our field trip. They invited us to this rally. It sounded fun. Besides, we didn’t make Mrs. Edmund drive us. She said it was okay.”

“That’s almost an hour’s drive. And what kind of a rally was this? Were drugs and alcohol being passed around?”

“Dad, chill out. It was some religious revival thing. Lots of singing and clapping.”

“Why in the world would you and Alesha even want to go to something like that?”

She sat up and started taking off her shoes, as if suddenly dead tired and in need of getting to bed.

“Like I said, we met some cool kids on our field trip, and they told us we should come. It was sort of a yawner, though. We ended up walking around the monuments and talking to some kids we met.”

“Kids? Or boys?”

“Well, there were boys and girls.”

“Emma, walking around the monuments at that time of night could be dangerous.”

“There were like tons of other people, Dad. Busloads. They have tour groups. Real sight-seeing fanatics, rubbing their little pieces of paper on the wall and taking umpteen pictures with their cheap disposables.”

Tully did remember that there were several night tours of the monuments. She was probably right. They were probably just as safe as in the daylight. Besides, didn’t the monuments have twenty-four-hour security?

“You were really funny with Mrs. Edmund.” She smiled up at him.

“What do you mean?”

“I thought for a minute there you were gonna ground her.” She giggled and Tully couldn’t help but smile.

The two of them ended up laughing, eating the rest of the corn chips and staying up to watch the last half of Hitchcock’s Rear Window on American Movie Classics. Yes, his daughter was a chip off her mother’s block, already knowing what buttons to push. And Tully wondered, once again, if he’d ever get this parenting thing right.

CHAPTER 18

Justin pretended to sleep. The converted Greyhound bus was finally quiet, the rumble of the engine and tires a welcome lullaby. Thank God! No more fucking “Kumbaya” songs. Getting through that wacky “praise the Lord” and “Yahweh rules” at the too-long prayer rally had been bad enough. But Justin knew his head would surely explode if he had to listen to that crap for the three-hour bus ride home.

He had reclined his bus seat just far enough back that he could keep a half-closed eye on Brandon and Alice. They were sitting together one row behind him and across the aisle. The interior of the Greyhound bus was dark except for the track lighting on the floor, like little-bitty runway lights. He could barely see Alice’s silhouette, her head turned to look out the window. She had kept that same pose since they left D.C. Even when the rest of the bus had been wailing at the top of their lungs, he could see Alice’s lips move only when she occasionally looked back. Otherwise she kept staring out the window. Maybe she couldn’t stand the sight of Brandon, either. Hey, he could hope, couldn’t he?

With the seat reclined, he could watch Brandon a little easier. Justin kept his eyes on Brandon’s hands. The guy better keep those fucking hands off Alice. Once in while, in the light of oncoming cars, he caught a glimpse of his face. Contentment. Fucking contentment, like he didn’t have a worry in the world. It still pissed Justin off that Brandon had rammed his way into the bus, practically shoving him aside and plopping down in the seat next to Alice as if it were marked his. The bastard took anything and everything he wanted without ever thinking of asking.

Justin heard the whispered murmurs before he twisted around and noticed Father coming from his private compartment in the back of the bus. Rumors were that it included a bathroom and bed for Father to catch up on his rest. Now, as he walked slowly up the aisle, holding on to the backs of seats to keep his balance, Justin couldn’t help thinking the man looked pretty ordinary in the shadows of the dark bus. What? The guy walked on water, but he had to hang on for a short trek down a bus aisle?

Justin kept his head pressed to the back of his seat, shifting slightly, so no one would think he was fully awake. He even snorted a little under his breath, a sound he had heard himself make other times in a half-conscious state.

Through the slits of his eyes, he could see Father stop, standing right at Justin’s head. His dark features made it impossible for Justin to tell through half-shut eyes whether or not the man was looking down at him.

Then he heard him whisper, “Brandon, go sit with Darren up in front for a few minutes. I need to talk with Alice.”

Brandon got up and obeyed without a word. Justin wanted to smile. Good, the bastard won’t be bothering Alice for a while. Maybe Father had noticed Brandon’s obsession with Alice. After all, he preached about celibacy being necessary in order for all of them to fulfill their mission. It was bullshit, of course, but he had witnessed the punishment imposed for disobeying. A couple who had gotten caught the first week Justin came to the compound were still being ostracized by the others.

“Alice, I wanted to commend you,” Justin heard Father say, though his voice was hushed. “You did an excellent job recruiting young people to come to the rally.”

“Justin and Brandon helped.” Alice’s voice was a whisper, but Justin’s radar seemed to be picking it up. He loved that soft, tender, sweet voice of hers. It sounded like a bird’s song, the words melodic, no matter what she said.

“That’s just like you to give some of the credit away.”

“But it’s true. They did help.”

Father gave a laugh that Justin didn’t recognize. He tried to remember if he had ever heard the man laugh.

“Do you have any idea how special you are, my dear girl?”

Justin smiled, glad that someone else noticed that important fact. Except Alice didn’t seem happy—the look on her face was almost a grimace. Too much modesty? She certainly needed to learn how to take a compliment, especially—what the hell?

Now, he could see what had quieted Alice. In the faint light of oncoming traffic, Justin could just make out Father’s right hand on Alice’s thigh. Justin kept his head against the seat but opened his eyes for a better look. Yes, the bastard’s fingers were sliding in between Alice’s thighs, moving their way up to her crotch. Shit! What the hell?

He felt a cold sweat wash over him, and a panic hammered in his chest. He looked back up at Alice’s face and this time she noticed him watching. She gave just a slight shake of her head, a definite “no.” At first, he thought it was meant for Father, but the man seemed fixated on the route his hand was taking. So the “no” was for Justin.

Fuck! Everything on her pained face told him she didn’t want what was happening, and yet she was telling him not to interrupt?

Shit! He had to do something. He couldn’t see Father’s hand anymore. It was too dark again, the stream of traffic having passed. But from the movement of the man’s shoulder, Justin figured he must be digging into her. Maybe by now, he had his goddamn hand down the front of her pants.

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.