Текст книги "The Immortals"

Автор книги: J. T. Ellison

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Four

Samhain Moonrise

They were four-the points of a compass, the corners of the earth. North, South, East and West. The elements of their worship: Earth, Air, Fire and Water. Wraiths dressed in black, scurrying through the graveyard one by one so they weren’t seen from the road.

This was a desolate place, far from the safety lights that peppered the modern landscape, astride a pitted country lane. A family cemetery: the husband and wife were buried at the head of the path. The road cut through their progeny, one side of the path for the man’s family, the other side for the woman’s. It had started as a cow path, centuries before, wormed its way into the earth gradually, until it was a clear demarcation. The people who took the earth felt it was prophetic, a way to walk amongst their dead without trampling on their spirits. They were considerate thinkers, these hardy men and women. The intent lo travel, to wander, was stamped on all who sprang from the loins of this family, permanently marked by the meandering path through their consecrated land that allowed travelers to disturb their eternal rest.

Balance was necessary. That’s why he’d chosen this cemetery in the first place. He’d spent hours combing the countryside, looking for his sacred place. Once he found it, he claimed it as his own, drew an invisible circle, grounded his body and cast his spell, making a sacrifice to the land– three drops of his blood mixed into the earth beneath the tall, stately oak that bounded the west border of the graveyard. The oak had responded in kind, accepting his offering and allowing a limb to drop at his feet. It was exactly the length of his arm from his elbow to the point of his middle finger, already smooth of bark and leaves, tapered slightly at the end, which created a perfect place for his hand to grasp.

The branch became his wand, and he used his athame, a two-sided blade with a hilt of the blackest obsidian, to carve his name into the oak in sigil letters-the witches’ alphabet-each corresponding to a point on the numerological chart, giving the wand incalculable powers at his hand. The athame had cost him a year’s allowance, the wand cost him blood, but it was well worth it. They were the tools of his religion.

He worshipped alone at the base of the oak, calling on the Goddess to bless him, the God to give him strength. He danced in the moonlight, cast harmless spells against his enemies carefully, followed close to the Wiccan’s Rede– First, do no harm. He knew that whatever he cast forth would return to him threefold, so he didn’t seek to maim, just annoy. He worshipped with joy, with despair, with love in his heart, with pain in his limbs.

When he felt the space was so completely attuned to his nature that it greeted him when he returned, the oak dropping leaves or bending to the whispering breeze, he brought his friends.

They were four-the comers, the watchers. North, South, East and West. Two boys, two girls. Balance, The older of the two girls belonged to him, six feet of creamy, milky skin so pale she almost didn’t need to use makeup to make herself disappear, with tumbling black locks that reached nearly to her waist. She was green-eyed, thin as a whippet but with womanly curves in all the right places, and if it weren’t against all his beliefs he would worship her as the Goddess. But she was flesh and blood. His flesh and his blood. They shared everything, every fluid, every waking moment. He felt incomplete when she wasn’t near, and as such kept her close always.

The boy was his closest friend and his occasional lover. He was handsome, with tousled blond hair and brown eyes, short and stocky and incredibly strong. Their youngest member had dark hair too, uncontrollably curly. She was a good physical match for her mate, small and solid, with thick calves and a cleft chin.

He trusted them with his life.

The four shared blood; through sacrifice, through a common vision, through the Great Act. Sex was their most powerful union, the blessing on their worship. They had been handfast, in the tradition of the Old Ways, declaring themselves for one another. They were looking for a Wiccan high priest who would do the official ceremony, legalizing their marriages in the eyes of the Goddess. They would go as couples, then as a quadrant.

While his magick was powerful, with his corners he could shift the very earth. His corners were his friends and lovers. His coven. They would follow him anywhere, and he would sacrifice himself for them in turn.

So when he told them the nonbelievers must die, they believed. They were The Immortals, and the night was theirs.

They had come tonight, the first night of the new moon, to cast a spell to Azreel, the Angel of Death. The last new moon, they had congregated, taken earth from the graveyard, said their spells and magickally charged it to allow the earth time to open, to allow a rift in the universe to form. Tonight they sought Azr^l’s blessing; a celebration of their wondrous evening.

Samhain, what the Christians and Jews called Halloween, was a sacred night, when the veil between the two worlds was at its thinnest and spirits walked openly between the afterlife and the living. Samhain marked the Wiccan New Year, a sober celebration, a time for reflection. Messages were sent, ancestors honored, blessings bestowed. He had chosen Samhain as the night of the cleansing, the night when they would rid the world of their enemies. If they received the proper blessings tonight, he could put the rest of his plan into action.

It was nearly time. They had a great deal of work to do. He led the four to the oak.

“Who comes to call Azrael?” he cried.

They stepped forward in turn, beginning with the tall girl.

“It is I, Fane. Blessed be.”

“I am Thorn. So mote it be.”

“It is Ember, the bright spark. Blessed be.”

He stood with them, head thrown back to the sky, speaking slowly and carefully. Their names conjured great power-he could already feel the ripples of energy coursing through the air.

“I am Raven, leader of this coven. In the name of the God and the Goddess, so mote it be.”

He struck a match and touched the flame to a stick of jasmine incense, then lit twelve black candles, three for each of them. The clearing began to glow. They’d already set out the stones: a violet amethyst, melanite, dark tiger’s eye and a piece of jet. The elestial stone, their record-keeper-a jagged piece of milky quartz-sat on top of the pile. It would be buried near the site after the ceremony, a permanent archaic tie to the earth.

Contact with the netherworld was meant as a silent meditation, but Raven had written a beautiful oral spell in his Book of Shadows, had copied it out neatly three times for his coven. They’d memorized it silently on the way over, each poring through the letters until they’d committed the words to heart.

They shed their clothes, kicked the dark stacks of cloth well out of the way of the candles so there was no chance of fire. They worshipped sky clad, naked in the cool night air, never feeling a moment’s embarrassment. Their bodies were astral temples, and beautiful despite any superficial cultural flaw.

They drew cords from their bags, each nine feet in length, and took up their athames and wands. They shuffled a bit, from foot to foot, shaking away any last bits of energy thai would disrupt their ritual. Focusing.

Raven glanced at his watch, looked to the moon-blank sky. It was time.

They lined up in their corners, facing one another in a circle, silent and serious. The dark was broken only by the shimmering candles that reflected the glow of their pale flesh.

Raven began the ceremony. “We come together in perfect love and perfect trust. So mote it be.”

“Perfect love and perfect trust. So mote it be,” they repeated after him, speaking in practiced unison. He used his athame to draw a wide, invisible circle at their feet, chanting, “Cast the circle, draw it right, bring the corners to us tonight.”

He walked in a wide arc, sprinkling salt water to create the borders of the circle. Fane followed behind him with the lit incense, sanctifying their footsteps. The circle was where they practiced their magick-inside the consecrated space, their prayers could be heard.

Once the circle was cast, Raven stepped inside, bade his coven to follow suit. When they were secure, he called the corners, using his athame to trace specific angled pentades in the air, each slightly different, depending on the corner he was calling.

“All hail to the element of air, Watch tower of the East. May you stand in strength and bless our prayers. Powers of the air, we summon you to join our circle.” He turned to his right and drew in the air again, forceful slashes, purposeful. Practiced.

“All hail the element of fire, Watchtower of the South.

May you stand in strength and bless our prayers. Powers of fire, we summon you to protect our circle.”

He turned again, and again. “All hail to the element of water, Watchtower of the West. May you stand in strength and bless our prayers. Power of water, we summon you to guard our circle.

“All hail to the element of earth, Watchtower of the North. May you stand in strength and bless our prayers. Powers of earth, we summon you to provide us guidance and success in our ministrations.”

The calls complete, Raven reached into the bag next to him and sprinkled the magickally charged earth they’d taken at the last new moon around the circle in a slow dribble. This would open the portal between the two worlds while keeping them safely grounded in the now.

“May the Goddess and the God look upon us in favor. All hail the Goddess. All hail the God.”

The group spoke in turn. ‘“All hail the Goddess. All hail the God.”

He kissed the blade of his athame, the others followed suit. Then they took up their cords, intertwining them, feeding them through each other’s hands until they were bound together. Raven caught each eye, nodding slightly. It was time to call Azrael. Time for their reward.

They pushed their personal energy into the earth, grounding, then reversed, bringing the earth’s power into their bodies. The force of it made them shiver. With their hands facing into the circle, they directed their power to the center and created an invisible cone, then walked widdershins, counter-clockwise, three times, pushing that energy down, toward their goal, ending back in their original spots. There was great danger in casting a widdershins circle, but Raven had assured them that the best, most direct route to Azrsel was through a negative portal, downward, not upward to the light. Besides, they were guarded by the four Watchtowers and the God and Goddess. He was confident they were safe.

He reached behind him and withdrew a small finger bone from his bag. Death liked bones-it was the soul’s truest form. Death understood that he was a part of all natural life.

The four of them turned to face the west, and Raven carefully, gently laid the finger bone in the dirt beside their stones. They breathed slowly, modulating their breath to match their partner, calming and balancing their energy. Deeper breaths now, with pauses in between to help them overoxygenate their blood and raise their consciousness. Raven could tell when they were all perfectly attuned, and he began to chant. The others followed a fraction of a second later. Their voices carried through the graveyard.

Azrael Azrael Az-rah-el.

Azrael Azrael Az-rah-el.

Azrael Azrael Azzzz-raaaah-elllll.

Angel of darkness, come bless us.

Angel of darkness, come bend us.

Angel of darkness, bring our true natures to the fore.

Bring us your power, and a sign of your blessing. We call to you, O ancient one, who dwells beyond the realms.

You who once reigned in the time before time. Come, hear our call.

Assist us to open the way, give us the power!

They repeated the poem three times, building into a tuneless chant.

Then Raven spoke, his arms spread wide, his head thrown back. “Bless us for finding the strength to rid the world of those who hurt us, who deceived and tortured. Fight our oppressors-punish those who are cruel to us. Allow us to know your divinity, to understand your ways, to find a painless path to keep us from shame. Show us the way, oh, AzrceL Night and need give life to your helping fire. Rectify our darkness, spread your wings of shadow through our souls. Watch over our houses, deflect their ire.”

At the end, they repeated their nocturnal God’s name over and over and over, turning in circles, winding themselves around each other, sinuous as snakes, then at the moment they felt the energy peak, consecrated their prayers with the Great Act. Raven and Thorn were so attuned to each other that they were able to climax at the same time. Their energy, like their seed, spilled into the earth, sanctifying their pact. The girls kissed, and the boys. They smeared the fluids along each other’s bodies, intricate glowing trails of symbols, then switched partners. The men writhed together while the women brought each other to a wild, breathless climax. They were all so good together, so right. The strongest magick was cast during the Great Act at the moment of shared orgasm.

Panting in the dust, they allowed their minds to come back. They stood, shakily, and unbound their cords. Raven thanked the corners, bid them hail and farewell. He closed the circle, careful to walk deosil, clockwise, to close their downward portal.

There was still energy in the air, crisp and crackling, so Raven told his coven to ground again so it wouldn’t drain their essences. Raven shut his eyes and envisioned a long, glowing root leaving his body and securing itself in the land, then let all his extra energy pour down the root. He felt better when he finished, smiled at Fane. They busied themselves with ending their prayers, burying the stone and the finger, blowing out the candles, dressing silently.

A breeze started, getting stronger until their hair was whipping around their faces. Thunder rumbled in the distance, then again, and lightning flashed, suddenly close. The sharp scent of ozone invaded Raven’s nose. He smiled.

“I didn’t think it was going to rain tonight,” Fane whispered.

“It wasn’t. Azrsel has blessed our prayers,” Raven said. “We have been blessed. Nothing can stop us now.”

Five

Nashville

7:50 p.m.

Baldwin circled the Vanderwoods’ house until he found a quiet spot in the backyard. “Sorry about that, Garrett. Needed to get clear of a situation. What’s up?”

“Well, I don’t have good news. The crypto boys sent a report in about some things they found on Charlotte Douglas’s computer.”

Baldwin stood straighter. Charlotte Douglas was a pro-filer he’d worked with years ago, and again just a few months back, on the Snow White case. She’d ended up embarrassing the Bureau before her untimely demise at the hands of a killer she’d recruited into her life-the same killer who stalked Taylor now. The Pretender was Charlotte’s creation, first an apprentice of the Snow White, then a self-named terror who’d invaded all of their lives.

Charlotte had brought death to their doors, and now it sounded like the Bureau was resurrecting the past. He held out hope that Charlotte’s records would help identify who the Pretender reallv was. But when she died, and the Bureau tried accessing her files, they self-destructed using a sophisticated encryption. Their best people had been working for months to resuscitate her work.

Charlotte was just as dangerous dead as she had been alive.

“And?”

“It seems she has some files pertaining to you. To a.. .relationship the two of you were having. She was rather graphic. And she’s made some other allegations against you.”

“Son of a bitch.”

“Yes. Well, we knew parts of this might come back to bite us. Don’t worry, okay?”

“Garrett, you know that Charlotte-“

“Baldwin, I know. Trust me, I know. I’m sorry, but this is out of my hands. I’ve been instructed to recall you to Quantico immediately so you can go before the disciplinary board first thing tomorrow morning for a little chat. I caught a shitload of heat when I told them you were in Nashville. So get yourself back up here, I’ve sent the plane for you. It should be ready to collect you shortly.”

“Is this serious, Garrett?”

His boss was silent for a few moments. “Yes, I think it is. They haven’t disclosed everything to me. I’ve arranged for Reginald Beauchamp to represent your interests at the hearing, just in case.”

“Whoa, I need counsel? I thought you said this was just a chat.”

“Baldwin, I’m not willing to take any chances. I’ve already defended you, told them any charges against you by that woman were ludicrous. But they’re very insistent.”

“Making an example out of me” Baldwin grumbled.

“It’s possible. They have her files now. The focus isn’t on you and Charlotte-it’s gone deeper. They’re especially interested in the Harold Arlen incident. The past is catching up with us.”

This time Baldwin groaned aloud. “Damn it, that case has been closed for years. I was cleared of all wrongdoing. Why are they bringing it up again?”

“You know why.” Baldwin breathed deeply through his nose, surprised that all he could smell was burned leaves tinged with fresh blood. He’d spent years trying to forget, to move on. To erase the dank scent of basement rot, the vision of shattered lives. The self-fulfilling prophecy that was Charlotte Douglas. God, Taylor couldn’t know. He needed to make sure of that.

Garrett was speaking again.

“I need to warn you. Apparently, Charlotte’s files had some extras that weren’t in your original reports. They want. ..clarification.”

“Clarifications that include lawyers and hearings. Are you talking about what I think you’re talking about?”

“Yes. Obviously, the phone…”

Baldwin felt himself shutting down, the rigid professionalism that got him through the most heinous of crime scenes filtering into his system. His detachment was his gift, and he readily employed it now. To think, to speculate about what might be waiting for him in Quantico would surely derail him before they asked the first question. He’d need all his powers of stability to face this issue all over again. The last time it had nearly cost him his life. He had much more to lose now.

“I’ll be there. Thanks for trying, Garrett. You’ve been carrying this load for a long time. We’re just going to have to take our chances and see how things shake out.”

Baldwin hung up his cell phone and slumped back against the deck. The woods behind the house were dark and foreboding, alive with crickets and the rustlings of small rodents. He thought he heard thunder roiling in the distance. This was not good news. Two thousand-four had been a horrible year, and reliving it, as he was sure to have to do, wasn’t going to be a good experience. He’d fought hard to clear his name back then, and he’d do it again now. Surely Charlotte’s notes were exaggerations of the truth. That was her forte.

He could only hope that it didn’t go any deeper.

Six

Nashville

8:00 p.m.

Taylor shut the door on the Norwoods and leaned back against the frame. She needed to see the last two crime scenes-the second double especially-but she needed a break. She wondered where Baldwin had gone.

She had j List flipped open her cell phone to call him when he rounded the corner of the house, hands in his hair. The ends were sticking up in the back. She stepped off the porch and met him in the yard. He was white, obviously furious.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

He look startled for a moment, then shook his head. “Nothing. I’ve just got to go back up to Quantico. Garrett needs me on a case.”

There was something in his voice, a note of doubt that she immediately seized on. He wasn’t telling her the whole truth. She reached out and touched his chin, turning his face to hers.

“A case?”

He gave her a halfhearted grin. “An old case. They need some testimony about it. I’m so sorry to have to run out on you.”

“We’ll be fine. Are you leaving in the morning?”

“Now, actually. Garrett sent the plane. I’ll have to review my notes and the hearing starts at 7:00.”

She could feel his distraction, decided not to force it. One thing she’d learned about Baldwin, he would eventually tell her what was going on. Pushing him when he was still working things out wouldn’t get her anywhere. And she had enough on her hands here.

“Do you need a ride? I can get a patrol to take you to the airport.”

He nodded. “That would be great. Thank you.”

He kissed her, letting his hand linger for a moment around the back of her neck. He felt so.. .sad. It was coming off him in waves. She wished she could help, knew he’d come to her when he was ready for actual consolation.

“Honey, can I help?” she asked softly.

His answering smile was grim. “I wish you could, Taylor. But I have to handle this myself.”

Taylor watched the patrol car drive away, wondering again what in the world could drag Baldwin to Quantico at this hour. She didn’t have time to worry about it; she had too much work to do. The chill was setting in, the air crisp with cold. She shivered, started to go back inside the Vanderwoods’ when her cell rang.

It was Marcus, distraught and short.

“We have another body,” he said. “Female teen, four streets over from Estes, Warfield Lane. Completely off the original path.”

Jesus. She thought they were in the clear. There’d been no new reports for over an hour. The house-to-house canvass had calmed, people were off the streets and barricaded in their homes. The media was frustrated, being kept away from the crime scenes. Too bad. They’d be able to dine out on this news for weeks anyway.

“I’ll be right there,” she said.

Taylor bolted out the front door, ran directly into Sam.

She grabbed Sam’s arm for balance, narrowly avoided falling down the front steps.

“Good grief, cookie, who lit your hair on fire?”

“Sorry about that, Sam. I’ve got another. Want to hit it with me?”

“Another? Good God. That makes, what?”

“Eight. Can we go now? Marcus just called and he’s obviously crushed.”

“Yeah. I’ll come back and declare this one afterward. Where’s Baldwin?”

“He got called back to Quantico, some sort of emergency.”

“Like this isn’t one.”

“No kidding.”

They wound their way under the crime-scene tape strung across the road and drove down a few streets to Warfield Lane. This house wasn’t as fancy as those on Estes-just a single-story cottage, but still spacious with a lovely, well-groomed yard. A pumpkin sat on the steps, not yet carved.

Marcus met them at the door, face pale.

“She’s in the back room. And just so you know, that’s not the only part of the pattern that’s broken. She’s not a Hillsboro student, she goes to St. Cecilia’s.”

Taylor took that in. “Hmm. She wasn’t in her bedroom, either?”

“No, a den. Looks like she was doing her homework. She’s on the floor behind the desk. Her mom said she likes to work in the window seat. The dog is lying next to her. He won’t leave her side.”

His voice was thick with sorrow. Taylor empathized. They were all going to be taking turns with the department shrink after this was over. Now they were up to eight. Eight teenagers in a single day. The only way it could get worse was if it had happened at school, with more children witnessing the deaths of their classmates.

A narrow hallway, voices from the kitchen. She caught a glimpse of color-a red blouse, the mother sobbing at the kitchen table-then they were at the entrance to the den. The room was paneled in walnut, small and cozy, with bookshelves lining the walls and a big bay window. Taylor and Sam stepped behind the desk.

A chocolate lab growled at them, the whites of his eyes showing. He dropped his head on his paws and whined, the hackles raised on the back of his neck.

“Down, boy. It’s okay.” She turned to Marcus. “What’s his name?”

“Ranger.”

“Okay, Ranger. It^Ts okay.” She inched closer. The dog seemed to sense the inevitable. He bared his teeth and snapped at her, then slowly, as if his bones ached, got to his feet. His back legs hitched as he moved. Hip dysplasia, Taylor noted absently. Poor thing was old.

“You’ve done your job, Ranger. She’ll be safe with us.” As Taylor spoke, she gently eased her hand around the dog’s neck and got ahold of his collar. She could feel him shaking. “He’s exhausted. Okay, sweet boy. Time to go.”

The dog sighed, then allowed himself to be led away. Taylor scratched him behind the ears as she handed him off to Marcus, then turned back to the body.

The girl was petite, blond hair in a disheveled ponytail, strands sneaking out and falling in tendrils around her face. Her lips were blue. She was naked from the waist up, her budding breasts smeared with blood, the top button of her jeans undone. The pentade carved in the long curves on her flat stomach was oozing blood. Her small body started to shake.

“Wait a minute,” Sam said. “Son of a bitch. She’s convulsing.” Taylor saw a small bubble of blood form on the girl’s lip. She stared in dull horror for a moment, then both women leaped to the girl’s side. Taylor pushed her fingers into the girl’s neck, felt a tiny, thready pulsing.

“Get the EMTs! She’s alive.”

The ambulance screamed away into the night, EMTs pumping hard on the girl’s chest, her mother crying, holding her free hand. Taylor stood in the doorway to Brittany Carson’s house. Ranger was cuddled against her legs.

Sam was behind her. She ripped off her gloves, snapped, “It’s been within the last hour. And it’s definitely drugs– her pupils were fixed and pinpoint. Whatever they’ve taken, it’s some kind of narcotic.”

Taylor turned back to her best friend. “Do you think that’s why the dog wouldn’t leave her side? Because he knew she was alive?”

Sam tucked a swoop of bang behind her right ear, then rubbed her hand across her eyes. She suddenly looked older, more harassed. She sighed, then said, “I don’t know. Maybe. If s probably a moot point. She’s lost a lot of blood, and she was cyan otic. All the other bodies were carved up postmortem. Their hearts weren’t pumping blood. Hers was a steady, slow loss. Depending on what she took.. .regardless, it’s definitely more recent than the others.”

Taylor watched her sharply. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah. I’m just really tired. Can’t seem to catch up on my sleep these days.” Sam stepped away, started loading her gear back into her scene kit.

“Sam?”

“What?”

“You know the last time you looked tired like this?”

“No, when?”

Taylor smiled, crossed her arms. “I don’t know, think back. May be… twenty, twenty-one months ago?”

Sam stopped, still and frozen in time. Her eyes met Taylor’s. “No.”

“I think that’s the wrong answer, Mommy.”

Sam sank into a chair, groaning. “No, no, no! I can’t be. Not yet, not now. I refuse. The twins just had their first birthday. Oh, shit. Simon is going to murder me.”

Taylor laughed at her best friend. “I think he might be thrilled. How far along do you think you are?”

“Hold on, I’m trying to count.” She grew silent for a moment, then said, “I can’t.. .oh, yeah.” She exhaled a laugh and blushed, then looked at Taylor. “I can’t be more than six weeks. Simon had that forensics conference in Denver, and I went with him. We got a suite and a sitter and had ourselves a little night out. I’ve been so freakin’ busy I didn’t even realize I missed my period.”

Taylor kneeled by the chair, swept her into a hug. “Honey, this is the most wonderful news. I’m thrilled for you.”

Sam hugged her back briefly. “Don’t tell anyone, for God’s sake. I need to warn Simon, and get to the OB. Shit, shit, shit.” But she was smiling, and the dark circles under her eyes looked a little less threatening.

Taylor gestured toward the den door. “When you warn him, let him know I may need his services. I seriously doubt you’re going to be able to handle tox and trace for all these crime scenes, and the TBI is backed up for months. We could probably ask Baldwin to send some of the samples to his lab at Quantico, but I’d rather do this quickly and quietly. I’ll arrange for some extra funding to get Simon’s lab to help you out.’* Sam’s husband, Dr. Simon Loughley, ran a firm called Private Match, one of the leading forensic specialty labs in the country. DNA matches for paternity were their bread and butter, which allowed Simon to take on outside work that fascinated him. He was always there in a pinch when Metro needed an immediate turnaround; the Tennessee Bureau of Investigation lab was so far behind on rape and murder samples that sometimes it was necessary to take their labs to independent, private vendors. It would cost, but Taylor didn’t anticipate that would be a problem. My God, six crime scenes in one day’s event? Even their notoriously tightfisted chief would agree with the necessity.

She couldn’t wait for their new crime lab to open. The funding was in place, a site selected. Everything was moving forward. No more relying on the kindness of others to get their pressing forensic evidence processed.

The dog whined at the door, jerking Taylor from her reverie.

“Okay. On that happy note, we need to get back to work.” She looked at the blood that had soaked into the carpet where Brittany Carson had lain bleeding to death. ‘Wish we’d gotten here sooner. She might’ve had a better chance.”

“How were you supposed to know? Are you telepathic now?”

“No, but-“

Sam shook her head. “No buts about it. You’re not a mind reader. You’ve got a killer who’s obviously thought this through very, very carefully. I’m praying this is the last call we get tonight.”

A horrible thought dawned in Taylor’s mind. “Do you think he could have been watching, waiting for us to arrive, before he came down here and finished up with Brittany?”

“Watching? Sure. You know how these kooks love to watch. He could have been at one of the houses at the far end of the neighborhood while we were in one of the other residences.”

“Jesus, The media is going to have my head.”

Sam was back to being all professional. She and Sam hadn’t hung out in a few weeks, and Taylor missed her. “Taylor, you’ve done the best you can. Let’s get back, I still have two bodies to declare.”