The Program

James Swain

Copyright © 2010 by James Swain

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from the author or publisher.

Edition: September 2010

Contents

Part I

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Part II

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Part III

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Part IV

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Author's Note

Ackknowledgment

Blessed are those who hunger
and search for righteousness,
For they shall be satisfied.
Matthew 5.6

Part I

Mr. Clean

Prologue

On a beautiful spring day in 1981, Maria Devine had packed her belongings in a cheap cardboard suitcase, taken her life-savings out of her mattress, and gone to visit her baby brother Renaldo at the madhouse in Havana where he was a ward of the state.

The madhouse was called Mazorra, and was filled with Cuba’s criminally insane, the majority of whom spent every waking hour locked up in their rooms, banging their heads against the walls and screaming at the top of their lungs. Mazorra was an evil place, and Maria could not come here without welling up with emotion.

But today was different. Today, she would not cry, nor would she leave by herself, tortured with guilt. Emancipation had come for her and her brother.

“I have wonderful news,” she’d announced upon entering his room.

Renaldo Devine had sat in a wooden chair in the corner, staring dully into space. His handsome face was marred by his hair, which stuck out at odd angles from his head. He wore a canvas straightjacket, his present for having bitten one of the nurses.

“Go away,” he’d snarled.

“We’ve been approved to leave the country.”

“You are crazier than me!”

Maria had produced two passports, which she’d stuck in front of his face. One was in his name, the other in hers.

“It is true,” she said. “Look.”

He’d stared at the passports in disbelief. Another patient had told him that Castro was throwing thousands of undesirables out of the country, but he’d never dreamed that he would become a part of the exodus.

“When?” he’d asked.

“Our boat leaves this afternoon,” Maria had said. “Isn’t it exciting? I will help you pack.”

Renaldo had cried as Maria freed him. Never in a thousand years would he have imagined himself leaving this place. An hour later, he’d skipped down Mazorra’s front steps with his sister, his clothes tied in a neat bundle beneath his arm.

They’d taken a crowded bus to the port city of Mariel. Renaldo had sat backwards and watched Havana slowly disappear. Right about now, the psychologist at Mazarro would have begun their session. Each day, she’d asked Renaldo the same questions. Where did the human skull buried in his backyard come from? What had happened to the three prostitutes who’d disappeared in his neighborhood? Why did he keep a collection of hunting knives in his room? Every day, the same questions.

Why, indeed. Because he’d wanted to kill those filthy women; because it made him feel good; because he could. Those were the answers to her stupid questions. Simple as that.

Only Renaldo had known better than to answer the psychologist. Instead, he’d swayed his head back and forth, and pretended to be insane. He knew what would happen if she found out about the demon trapped inside his body. She would tell the other doctors, and they’d fill him with drugs, and give him electroshock treatments.

They’d departed the bus at the Mariel docks. There, a mob of people clutching suitcases were waiting to board the fishing boats that were taking people off the island. Renaldo had recognized other inmates from Mazarro standing in line. One was a serial rapist, another had butchered his family. Monsters, just like him.

Maria had steered him to a boat with a smiling captain on the gangplank.

“Hello, Maria. You look very beautiful today,” the captain had exclaimed. “Is this your brother? What a handsome young man.”

Maria had blushed, tongue-tied. Renaldo had stared at the bulge in the captain’s crotch. It had explained everything. His sister had bought their passage with her pussy.

When the captain had tousled his hair, Renaldo had tried to bite him.

They headed to the back of the boat. Maria made him put on a life preserver and told him she was going to the front to buy him a cold drink.

What a nice sister Maria was. She had cared for Renaldo since their mother had died. She knew her brother was broken, but still loved him. Surprisingly, he had no feelings for her. When the psychologist at Mazarro had asked him to describe their relationship, he’d declared simply, “I don’t hate her.”

Soon they were on open water. Renaldo had sat with Maria on an upturned crate, eating sandwiches she had packed for the trip. Other refugees were singing and dancing in celebration of their newfound freedom. Renaldo had felt like he was in a dream.

By nightfall they’d reached an island south of Key West. They were allowed to dock in the marina, but were told there was a backlog of boats, and that they could not be processed until morning. Food was brought on board by the Coast Guard, and the party that had started in Cuba had turned into a bigger party that lasted well into the night.

It was a night that had changed Renaldo’s life. The marina was illuminated by underwater lights that lit up the water like an aquarium. Sitting on the edge of the boat, he’d watched schools of brightly colored fish swim past. Soon a shark appeared in the marina. It had gray, sandpapery skin, a blunt head, and a mouth filled with vicious teeth. The shark appeared to be in a daze, it’s movements lethargic. Suddenly, it snatched a smaller fish that had gotten too close, and swallowed it hole. The carnage happened so quickly, the other fish in the school didn’t notice, and did not try to escape.

The shark had killed the other fish all night long. In front of his eyes, he’d seen an animal kill without being caught. The trick was knowing how to fit into your surroundings, and not draw attention to yourself.

It had been a revelation for Renaldo. Right then, he’d decided to become a shark. He’d learn to blend in, and develop a killing style that was swift, and sure. He would not make the same mistakes he’d made in Havana, and get caught.

At dawn, he’d walked up to the front of the boat where Maria was dancing with the captain. They were sipping from a bottle of wine and pawing each other. They’d forgotten all about him, a fact that had infuriated Renaldo. He’d fought the urge to break the wine bottle on the side of the boat, and cut their heads off.

Instead, he’d started to clap his hands and shuffle his feet. When the dance was over, everyone on the boat had applauded. Maria had hugged him and kissed the top of his head, thinking somehow he’d been healed.

“What a wonderful boy,” the captain had said.

Renaldo had bottled up his rage toward the captain and his sister, and kept it inside for a month. During that time, he and his sister had moved to Fort Lauderdale and found an apartment. His sister had gotten a job as a waitress, and made a home for them. She had bought him new clothes and a motorbike, yet still his rage had remained.

One night over dinner, she had shown her brother a gold tennis bracelet hanging on her wrist. It was a present from her new boyfriend, she’d said. Renaldo had come around the table to have a look.

“How many times did you fuck him for that?” he’d asked.

“You ungrateful little bastard,” she’d said.

Picking up the knife from her plate, he’d grabbed his sister by the hair, and jerked her head back. Looking into her eyes, he’d kissed her forehead before slitting her throat. His new life in America had begun.

Chapter 1

FBI Special Agent Ken Linderman started his day with a run on the sandy beaches of Key Biscayne. Late August, hot and sticky, and he was the only idiot out punishing himself. Soon he was gasping for breath, the sweat pouring off his body like a man going to the electric chair. But he did not stop.

Six years before, he’d been doing laps on the dirt track at Quantico when he’d gotten the call that his daughter had gone missing. Danni was a freshman at University of Miami in Coral Gables, and had disappeared while out running near her dorm. There had been no witnesses or signs of foul play. Danni had simply stopped existing, the earth swallowing her up in one huge gulp. He’d been looking for her ever since.

Standing beneath the shade of a royal palm, he drank a bottled water and cooled down. A pretty brunette on a wind sail caught his eye. Watching her skip across the waves, he thought of his daughter and choked up. Time was supposed to heal all wounds, except that was a lie. Time was the enemy when loved ones went missing, each passing day a reminder of what might have been.

Back at his condo, he made coffee and used it to wake his wife, weaving the cup below her twitching nose. Muriel was small and fine-boned, with hair gone prematurely gray and a soft Virginia accent. Her eyelids flickered awake.

“My, what a handsome waiter,” she said.

“Good morning, madame,” he said. “How are we today?”

Muriel sipped the coffee with a brave smile on her face. She knew what this day was as well. In the kitchen, the phone rang. “You going to get that?” she asked.

“No. It’s probably work,” he said.

“Still planning to take the day off?”

“Yes. I’ve got everything planned for our little soiree.”

His wife perked up. “Tell me.”

“We’re going to take a leisurely drive to Key Largo, and have lunch at a four star restaurant called Song of the Sea that was written up. They’re holding a table for us.”

“That sounds wonderful. Do you want to shower first?”

“You go ahead. I need to cool down some more.”

The bathroom door clicked shut. Linderman stripped down to his shorts and walked out onto the balcony. The ocean breeze felt good against his overheated skin. He watched a school of brightly-painted catamarans race toward the mouth of the bay while thinking how ironic his life had become. He was a profiler, and had helped crack hundreds of cases, yet he could not solve the mystery of his daughter’s disappearance.

He had not started out wanting to be a profiler. Twenty-six years old, and fresh out of the FBI academy, he’d been doing clerical work for an agent named Robert Kessler when something called the Criminal Personality Research Project had been dropped on his desk. Kessler had been visiting prisons around the country, persuading serial killers to talk to him. Those interviews had been given to Linderman to put into cohesive form.

The job had been daunting. Kessler had talked to a hundred of the worst killers, his subjects including cannibals, blood-drinkers, necrophiliacs, crazed giants, demented stranglers, mutilators, and child-killers. There had been no simple way to group them. They were all monsters.

Linderman had decided to chronicle the killers based upon the year they’d been caught. The oldest cases would go first, the newest last. And that was when he’d noticed something no one in the bureau had seen before. Of Kessler’s killers, sixteen had been arrested between 1965 and 1975, the remaining eighty-four between 1975 and 1985. During those last ten years, the number of serial killers had dramatically increased, with an average of one being caught every six weeks.

It was nothing short of an epidemic.

Linderman had written a lengthy memo to his superiors, explaining what he’d found. It had created an uproar. The FBI was spending millions of dollars trying to catch serial killers, yet their number was rising.

No one liked the bearer of bad news. His superiors had kicked him upstairs to Behavioral Science, and told him to “go figure out the problem.” He’d become a profiler overnight.

Only being a profiler was not a job that Linderman had desired. Profilers led difficult lives, and suffered from a variety of medical problems, including bleeding ulcers, anxiety attacks, and rapid and unexplained weight loss. The medical profession called it situational stress, but the gang at Quantico had another name for it. They called it staring into the abyss.

But there had been a plus side to his new position. He’d gotten to work alongside Kessler and Douglas Johnson, two of the finest profilers the FBI had ever produced. They’d taught him the ropes, and over time, Linderman had learned how to cope with the nightmares and health issues, and had started catching serial killers like no one before him. It was his calling, and he might have kept doing it until retirement, only Danni had gone missing.

For four years, Linderman had searched for his daughter while working at Quantico. Then, out of frustration, he’d moved to South Florida with his wife, and taken a job running the Child Abduction Rapid Deployment unit in the FBI’s North Miami office. It was a step down in both pay and stature, but he didn’t care. He was determined to find out what had happened to Danni, no matter what the cost.

Muriel came onto the balcony in a bathrobe, her hair dripping wet. He put his arm around her shoulder and started to kiss her.

“You got a phone call. Several, actually.” She sounded angry.

“I’m sorry.”

“It was Vick. She asked that you call her right away.”

“I’m not working today, remember?”

“It sounded urgent.”

“What about my plan to run away for the day?”

“Oh, Ken, I don’t know.”

He lowered his arm. Muriel looked out of sorts. The day had caught up to her, just like it’d caught up to him during his run. His dream of running away to Key Largo suddenly seemed awkward and foolish. Muriel would stay in the condo, bury herself in a romance novel or watch the programs she’d Tivoed, while he’d go throw himself in a case. It was what their lives had become, and there was no escaping it.

“Are you sure you want to be here by yourself?” he asked.

“I can manage,” his wife replied.

“That’s not what I asked you.”

She nodded stiffly. Her brave face was back. It said she’d manage just fine.

“I’ll do whatever you want, Muriel,” he said.

“Call her back. She needs you, Ken.”

His wife pulled the cordless phone from her robe, and went inside. He punched in Vick’s cell number from memory and heard the call go through. Rachel Vick belonged to the spirited crop of recruits who’d joined the bureau after 9/11. Rachel was smart and brash and wanted to change the world. She’d started as a field agent in Jacksonville, then transferred to North Miami to work under him. Vick was ambitious, and did not hide the fact that she wanted to become a profiler one day, and move to D.C.

Vick answered on the first ring. He could hear the tremor of excitement in her words. “Another violent teenage boy has been abducted in Fort Lauderdale,” she said.

“Same abductor as before?” he asked.

“It appears so. The boy’s name is Wayne Ladd. He’s seventeen, and matches the profile of the other two victims.”

“Tell me what happened.”

“Ladd was being dropped off for an anger management class at a rehab facility this morning,” Vick said. “The abductor took Ladd from the parking lot, and killed the driver when he tried to interfere. A surveillance camera from a convenience store across the street captured the whole thing. I need you to come here, and watch the surveillance tape. I think I know who the abductor is.”

Now he understood the excitement in Vick’s voice. She wanted confirmation. “Who do you think it is, Rachel?” he asked.

“Killer X.”

Linderman sat down on a metal chair on the balcony and ran his fingers through his thinning hair. Killer X had been murdering prostitutes in Broward County since the mid-1980s, slicing their throats and tossing their bodies away like trash. To date, over fifty deaths had been attributed to his lethal hand. As killers went, he was an enigma. He left no meaningful clues or fingerprints, and had never contacted the police or the media to boast about his crimes. Few details were known about him, except that he was a man. Every profiler in the FBI had studied the case at one time or another, and no one had been able to stop him.

“Killer X slits the throats of his victims, all of whom are women,” he said. “This abductor is shooting violent teenage boys. It’s not the same perp, Rachel.”

“Yes, it is.”

“No, it’s not. I’ve studied thousands of serial killers. The motives behind the crimes are different.”

“I found a link. Please come, and see for yourself.”

Vick was pleading with him. Deep down, Linderman wanted her to be right. It would get a horrific killer off the streets, and be a great boost for her career. Only his gut told him Vick wasn’t right. Serial killers did not shift gears.

“You’re absolutely certain about this,” he said.

“Yes. I’m positive it’s him.”

“All right. Tell me where you are.”

She gave him the address, and he promised to be there in a half hour. Going inside, he took a shower and threw on his suit. As he was knotting his necktie, he noticed Danni’s photo gone from the dresser.

“Muriel?”

He found his wife at the kitchen table holding Danni’s photo in her lap, her body racked with sobs. He held her until she stopped crying, then went to see Vick.

Chapter 2

Every county in Florida dealt with juvenile offenders differently. Some put the offenders on house arrest and made them wear electronic monitoring bracelets on their ankles. Others sent the offenders to boot camps, where they lived in bunk houses and drill sergeants turned their lives into living hell. In Fort Lauderdale, offenders were entered into a rehabilitative program called Harmony.

Harmony was an ugly pile of burgundy stucco on the west side of town, its neighbors a nasty biker bar and an Asian massage parlor that took all major credit cards. It was a seedy area, and Linderman found it hard to believe that sending a problem kid there would change him or her for the better, unless the idea was to scare them straight. The street had been cordoned off, and he showed his credentials to a patrol officer before being allowed to enter.

He parked his SUV at the curb and got out. The slain driver’s body lay beneath a white sheet on Harmony’s front lawn. Dried blood stains raced across the grass to the side parking lot, where a pair of gloved CSI technicians from the Broward Sheriff’s Department scoured the area for clues. Vick stood beneath the building’s shade, awaiting his arrival.

“Who moved the driver?” Linderman asked by way of greeting.

Vick stepped out from the shade. She was dressed in a navy pants suit the same color as a cop’s uniform. She was small, and wore heels to compensate for her size. Her sun-streaked blond hair was cropped short, the effect almost boyish. She wore little make-up, yet still managed to look stylish and pretty. Had a badge not been pinned to her lapel, she could have passed as a teenager.

“One of Harmony’s counselors did,” she explained. “The fire ants were attacking him, so the counselor dragged him onto the lawn.”

Florida was like the jungle; when people died outdoors, critters began to eat them.

“How badly was the crime scene compromised?” he asked.

“It’s worthless to our investigation.”

He knelt beside the dead driver and lifted the sheet. The victim was a balding, overweight white male in his late 40s, his shiny head covered in angry red bites. His neck had been sliced, the coagulated blood around the wound stretching from ear-to-ear. Criminals called it giving someone a necklace. He was having a bad day, but nothing like this poor son-of-a-bitch.

“What’s his story?”

“His name’s Howie Carroll. He’s been a Harmony driver for five years,” Vick said. “Carroll was supposed to deliver Wayne Ladd to his anger management class this morning at seven-thirty. One of Harmony’s counselors found Carroll’s body in the parking lot. The counselor assumed Ladd had killed Carroll, and called 911.”

“Why did the counselor think that?”

“Last year, Ladd shoved a bayonet through his mother’s boyfriend’s heart. He’s a violent kid,” Vick replied.

“Just like the first two victims.”

“Yes. They both killed adults in their early teens.”

He stood up, and had a look around the Harmony property. Daylight abductions were rare. It told him that the perp had little, if any, regard for the law.

“Any witnesses?” he asked.

“The manager of the Magic Mart across the street witnessed the killing,” Vick said. “It was also captured on the store’s outside surveillance camera.”

“Is this the tape you told me about?”

“Yes.”

“Still convinced he’s Killer X?”

“I sure am.”

The excitement was still there in Vick’s voice. She’d hooked a live one, and now wanted help reeling him in. She’d given Linderman something to feel good about, and he felt the dark clouds that had been circling around him slowly lift.

“Where’s the manager now?” he asked.

“Inside the store. A homicide detective is getting a statement from him.”

“Let’s go talk with him.”

The Magic Mart was an ice box, the aisles crammed with bags of potato chips and cases of discounted beer. Behind the counter stood a skinny Latino wearing a brown smock with the name Juan stitched in white letters above the breast pocket. Beside him stood a chunky white male with blown-dry hair and an off-the-rack suit whom Linderman assumed was the homicide dick. Both men looked up.

“Why, hello Rachel,” the detective said, flashing a smile.

“Hello, Roger,” Vick replied. “Detective Roger DuCharme, this is Special Agent Ken Linderman, supervisory agent for the FBI’s Child Abduction Rapid Deployment unit in North Miami. He’d like to speak with the manager.”

Linderman liked the formality in Vick’s voice. Firm but polite. DuCharme glanced warily at him as if sizing up an opponent, then dipped his chin. Linderman didn’t like the vibes the detective was giving off, and nodded back.

“Mr. Gonzalez doesn’t speak English very well, so you need to go slow with him,” DuCharme explained.

If Linderman had learned anything living in South Florida, it was that the vast Latino population spoke English better than people thought. He faced the manager and smiled pleasantly. “Good morning. Please tell me what happened earlier.”

Gonzalez appeared eager to get away from DuCharme. Coming out from behind the counter, he led the FBI agents to the front of his store, where he pointed across the street at the Harmony building.

“This morning, I see a big man on the sidewalk over there,” Gonzalez said. “I think he maybe Cuban or Puerto Rican. A van come into the lot, and the big man run over to it, and wave to the driver like something wrong. The driver get out, and the big man grabs him like this.” Gonzalez mimicked putting someone in a choke hold. “He puts a knife to the driver’s throat, and cuts him bad. The big man jump into the van and punches the boy. Then, he take off. I feel bad for driver — you know?”

“Did you know the driver?” Linderman asked.

“Oh, yeah. He come into the store many times. Nice guy.”

“Anything else you remember?”

“It happen so fast, it didn’t seem real. You know?”

“The man was quick.”

“Oh yeah.” Gonzalez snapped his fingers. “He kill him just like that.”

“I’d like to see the surveillance tape,” Linderman said.

Gonzalez locked the front door and led them to a storage room where a TV and VCR sat on a desk. Linderman pulled up a chair, as did Vick, while DuCharme stood behind them working a piece of gum. Gonzalez pressed the Play button on the VCR.

“You watch,” Gonzalez said.

The TV came to life. A surveillance tape showing the front of the Magic Mart started, the Harmony building and parking lot visible across the street. Stamped in the bottom right corner of the tape was the date and time. The tape had been taken at 7:30.24 that morning.

A figure appeared on the sidewalk in front of Harmony. A tall, broad-shouldered Latino male wearing a floppy white hat, wraparound shades, and an embroidered white Guayabera shirt with matching white cotton pants. The Guayabera was a traditional Cuban shirt, and worn pulled out.

The tape continued to roll. At 7:33:10, a van driven by Howie Carroll pulled into the Harmony lot, and parked by the building’s side entrance. In the backseat sat a teenage boy plugged into an iPod whom Linderman assumed was Wayne Ladd. The boy had a mop of black hair, and seemed to be lost in the music on his iPod.

The man in the Guayabera made his move. Entering the parking lot, he waved to Carroll while pointing frantically at the hood of the van. Carroll got out of the van to have a look. Drawing a knife from his pocket, the man in the Guayabera put Carroll in a choke hold. He fumbled for a split-second, then slit Carroll’s throat in one swift motion. Wayne Ladd watched through the window, his eyes bulging. The man in the Guayabera jumped into the van, and clubbed the teenager to the floor with his fist. Getting behind the wheel, the man in the Guayabera closed the door, and sped away.

Linderman checked the time stamp. 7:33:27. Seventeen seconds and change. Not one wasted movement or step had been taken.

“Show me the link,” he said.

Vick rewound the tape. Again, they watched the killing.

“Watch when he fumbles,” she said.

Linderman watched. The man in the Guayabera tried to grab Carroll’s hair as he slit his throat. Only Carroll was bald, and nearly slipped free.

“He tried to grab his hair, and jerk his head back before he killed him,” Vick explained. “It was an instinctive reaction.”

Vick was right. Not many killers slit their victims throats. The man in the Guayabera had done this many times before.

“I think you’re onto something,” Linderman said.

Vick’s face lit up. “You do?”

“Yes. Let’s see how many more clues he left.”

They rose from their chairs. DuCharme stood behind them like a statue.

“Pretty scary guy,” the detective said.

Linderman did not like working with people who stated the obvious. Their stunted imaginations did nothing but impede the investigative process. He decided to give the detective a chance to redeem himself.

“How do you think our killer got here?” Linderman asked.

“Come again?” DuCharme said.

“His mode of transportation. Did he walk, come by bike, take a bus? Whatever he used, it’s likely someone saw him.”

“I never thought of that,” DuCharme said.

Linderman had heard enough. He told DuCharme he wanted a copy of the tape, then grabbed Vick and headed outside.

“This is a huge breakthrough,” Linderman said, standing beneath the store’s awning. “We’re not going to talk to anyone about it.”

Vick’s spirits crashed. “We’re not?”

“No. The media would have a field day, and that will only impair our ability to catch this guy. Think of the headlines. Serial killer abducts boy, murders driver in broad daylight.”

“So I shouldn’t refer to him as Killer X.”

“Not until after we catch him. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“Our killer looked fresh. I think it’s reasonable to assume that his mode of transportation had air conditioning,” Linderman said.

“Do you think he came by bus?”

“Yes. He could have taken a taxi, but that would have meant exposing his face to the driver. This guy’s smarter than that, don’t you think?”

“He’s above average IQ, but unbalanced,” Vick said. “Did you see what he did to the driver after he killed him?”

Linderman spotted a covered bus stop two blocks away. He started to walk in that direction. Vick heels clopped on the pavement as she fell in line.

“No, what did he do?” Linderman asked.

“He kissed the top of the driver’s head as he slit his throat,” Vick said. “He was saying goodbye to him.”

Linderman had seen that, but wanted to see if Vick had noticed it.

“Anything else?” he asked.

“The killer’s shirt was embroidered. A Guayabera can be bought plain, or with embroidery. His clothes were also spotless. I think he’s narcissistic.”

“That’s good. What else did you see?”

“That’s it.” She hesitated. “Did I miss something?”

“Yes.”

Vick did not respond. He waited until they were at the bus stop before telling her.

“He’s driven a van or bus before,” Linderman said.

“How can you tell?”

“The doors on vans are tricky to operate. Our killer closed the door on the first try. He may have been a driver once.”

Vick’s shoulders sagged, and she let out a deep sigh. She was a perfectionist, and would flog herself for the rest of the day over this.

“I missed that,” she said.

“Don’t worry about it,” he said. “We all miss things.”

Chapter 3

Linderman called the Broward County Transit System on his cell phone, and listened to a creepy automated voice tell him the times the various buses made their rounds. Hanging up, he said, “A bus comes to this corner at ten minutes intervals starting at six a.m. Call the Broward cops. Someone needs to talk to the bus company’s drivers. Maybe one of them saw our killer.”

Vick put in a call to the Broward Sheriff’s Department. She was not happy with herself, her mouth turned down in a frown. Linderman wanted to tell her to stop pouting — even the best agents missed things — but knew it wouldn’t do any good.

“I’ll be right back,” he said.

He crossed the street. The pavement burned his soles like hot coals. Inside a convenience store he pulled two sodas from a cooler, and put one against his scalp.

He paid with a large bill. His change came back a dollar short. He showed the cashier his badge, and watched the young man visibly shrink behind the counter. In his late-twenties, with jet black skin, and a sing-song Caribbean accent.

“Your name,” Linderman said.

“Ariel,” the cashier replied. “Is that a policeman’s badge?”

“FBI. Feel up to answering some questions?”

Ariel grew even smaller. “Yes, of course.”

“Early this morning, a big Latino man got off the bus wearing white clothes and a floppy white hat. Did you see him?”

“Oh, yes. He was hard to miss.”

“Tell me about him.”

Ariel brought his hand up to his chin in thought. “It was about seven o’clock, and I had just arrived. The man in white got off the bus with maybe twenty people. He crossed the street and stood out front for several minutes. That’s all I remember.”

“Where were you standing when you saw him?”

“Here by the register.”

“Come here for a second.”

Linderman led Ariel to the front of the store, and made him look outside. One of the most interesting interrogation techniques of the last thirty years involved moving a witness, and having them recount what they’d seen from a different vantage point. For reasons no one quite understood, it helped jog their memory.

“Tell me again what you saw,” Linderman said.

Ariel stared through the glass. “The man in white came off the bus, and crossed the street. He came to the front of my store and hung around for a while. Wait, I remember something now. He went around the side of the building to use the pay phone, and two girls approached him. He said something to them. His voice was quite harsh.”

“Do you know these girls?” Linderman asked.

“Yes. They are prostitutes.”

“Describe them.”

“They are both white, rather small, sisters I think. Today they are wearing pink hot pants and halter tops. They hang around on the corner, and men in cars pick them up for blow jobs.”

Linderman slapped Ariel on the shoulder. “Thank you. Now give me back the dollar you stole from me.”

Vick stood beneath the shade of the bus stop, talking on her cell phone. She ended her call, and Linderman handed her a soda.

“Asshole,” she said.

“You’re welcome,” he said.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean you.”

“Let me guess. The Broward cops are giving you a hard time.”

“Yes. I spoke with the head honcho, Sheriff Moody. Moody said he was swamped, and suggest we contact the bus company ourselves. What’s his beef?”

“He probably doesn’t like being told what to do.”

Vick drank her soda in silence. She did not like having her authority questioned, especially by another law enforcement officer. He supposed it had to do with her size, and being a woman in a field dominated by insensitive men.

“The convenience store manager was helpful,” Linderman said. “He told me that a pair of hookers wearing pink hot pants talked to our killer this morning.”

“I saw those girls a few minutes ago.”

“Which way did they go?”

She lowered her soda and pointed south.

“Let’s go find them,” Linderman said.

Two blocks away they found the hookers negotiating with a john in a Mercedes. Both girls were horribly thin and missing several of their front teeth. Linderman banged on the roof of the Mercedes and flashed his badge. The john sped away. They led the girls down the street to an alleyway. Neither seemed terribly upset by the interruption.

“We’ve never been stopped by the FBI before,” one of the hookers said proudly.

“Maybe we should get out pictures taken,” the other hooker said.

Linderman didn’t bother to ask them their names: They would only give him fake ones anyway. Instead, he said, “This morning at around seven o’clock you talked to a big Latino man dressed in white. Tell me about him.”

“You mean Mr. Clean?” the first hooker said. “That guy was in fucking love with himself. Real prima dono.”

“Prima dona,” the other hooker corrected.

“Fuck you,” the first hooker laughed.

Linderman cued Vick with his eyes. He wanted her to jump in, and take over. It was always better for a woman to interrogate another woman than a man.

“Do you remember what Mr. Clean said to you?” Vick asked.

“He cursed us,” the first hooker said.

“Why did he do that?”

“He was trying to make a phone call. We went up to him to see if he wanted some company, and he told us to go down on each other. Then he started yelling at Ernesto.”

“Ernesto?” Vick asked.

“Ernesto hangs around the convenience store. He was lying in the bushes sleeping off a hangover, and he started singing an old Beatle’s song. I Want to Hold your Hand…”

“It was Please, Please Me,” the other hooker corrected.

“Fuck you,” the first hooker laughed. “Anyway, Mr. Clean told Ernesto to shut the fuck up or he’d hurt him. Ernesto went back to sleep, and Mr. Clean finished his call.”

“Did you hear what Mr. Clean said during his call?” Vick asked.

“Naw.”

“Have you ever seen Mr. Clean before? Think hard.”

Both hookers scrunched up their faces. They shook their heads.

“Thank you. You’ve been a big help,” Vick said.

“Sure we have,” the first hooker laughed.

They found Ernesto lying in the bushes outside the convenience store, just like the hookers said. A young man dressed in dark dress slacks and a collared long sleeve blue shirt, the quality of his clothes suggesting he’d only recently fallen from grace.

Linderman woke Ernesto up, and made him sit with his back against the store window. Vick bought a large coffee, and gave it to him to drink. Drunks were not reliable witnesses, but Linderman decided to give it a shot.

“This morning, you had an argument with a Latino man trying to make a phone call,” Linderman said. “I need you to tell me what you remember about him.”

“Is that what the sirens were about?” Ernesto asked.

“Yes.”

“What did he do?”

“He slit a man’s throat and abducted a teenage boy.”

Ernesto crossed himself and took a swig of coffee. Caffeine took fifteen seconds to hit a person’s blood stream. The effect it had on Ernesto was nothing short of miraculous. His eyes snapped open, and he instantly became alert. “I lost my job selling cars last month, then my wife walked out on me,” he explained. “I’ve been on a bender ever since. I ended up here last night and crashed. When I woke up this morning, something came over me, and I started singing. This Cuban guy making a phone call started yelling at me.”

“How did you know he was Cuban?” Linderman asked.

“I’m Cuban. I know another Cubano when I hear one.”

“What did he say to you?”

“He told me he’d break my neck if I didn’t shut up. He looked pretty strong, so I stopped singing, and he went back to his call.”

“What do you remember about his phone call?”

Ernesto resumed drinking his coffee and shook his head. The memory was there, Linderman just needed to pull it out. The FBI agent decided to try another approach.

“Close your eyes, and imagine him making the call,” Linderman said.

“What good is that going to do?” Ernesto asked.

“Just try.”

Ernesto shut his eyes. “All right, I see him.”

“Imagine him dropping coins in the phone.”

“Okay.”

“How many coins did he drop?”

Ernesto hesitated. “Six or seven.”

“Coins make different sounds. Was he dropping nickels, dimes, or quarters?”

Another hesitation. “Quarters. They were heavy.”

“He’s stopped yelling at you, and is talking to someone. Who?”

“The crack whores.”

“I mean on the phone. Who did he call?”

Ernesto paused, struggling. “A guy. It was definitely a guy.”

“Did he address him by name?”

“No. They didn’t talk very long.”

“What did he say to him?”

“He said something strange. He said, “I found the right boy for the Program,’ and said goodbye.” Ernesto opened his eyes. “That’s all I remember.”

Linderman patted him on the shoulder. “That’s great. You’ve been a big help.”

The pay phone was on the side of the convenience store. Covered in graffiti, it had a silver sticker that identified it as the property of Sky Tell Communications. Linderman wrote down the company’s phone number and returned to the front of the store. Ernesto was on his feet, brushing himself off.

“Feeling better?” Linderman asked.

“Much. Thanks for the coffee.”

“Here’s my card. Call me if you remember anything else.”

Ernesto crossed the street to the bus stop. A bus came, and he boarded. He’d lost everything but his dignity, and hopefully would climb out of the hole he’d dug for himself. Linderman handed Vick the number for Sky Tell Communications. “This is the number for the company that owns the pay phone our killer used. We need to contact them, and get a list of all incoming and outgoing calls made from the phone this morning. While you’re at it, have the CSI techs dust the pay phone for prints and trace DNA, and see what turns up. We may get lucky.”

“Will do,” Vick said.

“I’m heading back to the office. Let me know how things turn out.”

Linderman headed down the sidewalk. The heat had caught up with him, and he was looking forward to basking in his car’s AC.

“I can catch this guy,” Vick blurted out.

He turned around on a dime. “What did you say?”

“I said, I can catch this guy.”

Vick was like him — by the book. This was not like her.

“How are you going to do that?” he asked.

“When I was at the Academy, we studied a serial killer in Gary, Indiana called Spooky Tooth. Spooky Tooth was incredibly vain, and thought he’d never be caught. The FBI set a trap on the Internet, and caught Spooky Tooth in a few days. Killer X is also vain. If I set a similar trap, I’m sure he’ll take the bait.”

“What are you saying, Rachel? You want to take the case over?”

She nodded vigorously.

“Why should I let you do that?”

“I’m tuned into this guy. I can catch him.”

“By yourself?”

“I’ll need the Broward police to help me. And you, of course.”

Linderman’s first reaction was to say no. Rachel did not have the experience to be taking on a case like this. During her time in Jacksonville, she’d worked the Forgery Unit; upon moving to North Miami to work for him, she’d handled child abductions and helped crack a baby-snatching ring. These were all good experiences, but they weren’t the same as chasing a serial killer. Rachel had never dealt with pure evil, and had no concept of what it might do to her. She didn’t know what it was like to stare into the abyss, and feel the heat scorch her soul. Nor did he think she’d ever woken up in the middle of the night yelling at the top of her lungs. Those were the things that happened to FBI agents who engaged serial killers, and there was no avoiding it.

But at the same time, he couldn’t deny the burning desire in her eyes. It was a look that told him that this was her time. Rachel was sick of being treated like a kid, and being judged based upon her gender and size. She wanted to prove herself, and this was her opportunity to do that. If denied, she might never get another chance, and would be stuck taking orders for the rest of her career.

He stared long and hard into her face, just to be sure he was making the right decision. He decided that he was.

“Let me see what I can do,” he said.

Chapter 4

Vick sat in the hallway outside Sheriff Moody’s office. Through the glass, she watched Linderman make his case for her to take over the investigation. If body language was any indication, it was not going well.

Moody, first name Lester, was a thick-headed man, short on temper and long on intolerance, who should never been made sheriff. Had his predecessor not been caught taking bribes, Moody wouldn’t have gotten the job. The world was funny that way. Morons ran things, while the truly qualified toiled in quiet desperation.

Moody spun in his fancy leather chair, and studied her through the glass. Then, he spoke to Linderman. Vick couldn’t read minds, but she could read body language. Moody was telling Linderman that she looked too young to be given this much responsibility. Too young, too small, too fragile, too pretty. All the strikes against her seemed to start with the word too. It made Vick mad just thinking about it.

Linderman said something that made Moody wince. Had Ken threatened him? It sure seemed like it. Ken was deceiving that way. He had the persona of a mild-mannered little league coach, but there was another side to him you dare not cross. He could be tough, yet she’d never regretted leaving Jacksonville to work for him.

Linderman came out, shutting the door behind him. Vick rose hesitantly.

“It’s your baby,” he said.

Her hands clenched into fists and she rose on her toes. Linderman smiled at her with his eyes.

“Moody wants you to brief his men on how you plan to trap our killer.”

“I’m game. When?”

“Right now.”

“But I’m not ready.”

“Then get ready. I’ll stall him for fifteen minutes. This is the big leagues, Rachel. Do it.”

He went into the office and closed the door behind him. Through the window, she saw Moody talking on his intercom, marshaling his troops. Her elation was replaced by a sickening sense of dread. What if she got tongue-tied, or made a fool of herself? What if she forgot what she wanted to say? Her stomach made a low gurgling sound. Hurrying down the hall, she banged open the door to the women’s restroom.

“Good morning,” Moody said to a conference room packed with plainclothes homicide detectives. “We are fortunate to have the FBI with us today. To my left, Supervisory Special Agent Ken Linderman, head of the Miami CARD unit. Next to him, Special Agent Rachel Vick, also with CARD. Because of the FBI’s experience in handling abduction cases, I’ve asked them to lead up this investigation. Please give them your undivided attention.”

Moody stepped to one side, and the conference room fell silent. Vick felt the eyes of every detective staring at her. There had to be at least fifty of them packed into the room. She had expected Linderman to kick things off, and was surprised when she felt his elbow nudge her rib cage.

“Knock “em dead,” he whispered.

Vick took the floor. In her hands were sheets she’d hurriedly photocopied and stapled together. Seeing DuCharme in the front row, she dropped them in his lap.

“Detective DuCharme, if you don’t mind, please distribute these.”

DuCharme went flush. A detective in the back of the room snickered. Vick found the culprit with her eyes.

“Please save your comments until I’m done,” she said.

She waited until DuCharme was finished before speaking. Her audience was mostly white males, just like the FBI’s North Miami office. Definitely a boy’s club.

“There is a serial killer on the loose in Broward County who is preying on violent teenage boys,” Vick began. “In your hands are photographs of his first two victims, Robert Nardelli, age 16, and Barrie Reedy, age 17. Both boys had murdered adults, and were entered into juvenile rehabilitation programs while serving house arrest.

“Nardelli and Reedy’s bodies surfaced one week after their abductions. Both had been shot in the right side of the temple with a .38 hollow point bullet at close range. Both bodies were discarded in fields not far from major highways. The FBI got interested in the case after Reedy’s body was found. The body was put by a No Dumping sign, which is indicative of the hostility toward society which many serial killers feel.

“This morning at 7:30 a.m., a third teenager, Wayne Ladd, was abducted in the parking lot of the Harmony juvenile rehabilitation program in Fort Lauderdale. Ladd is 17, and admitted to stabbing his mother’s boyfriend last year. Ladd was in a Harmony van, which the abductor also stole. The van’s driver got his throat slit.

“We were fortunate this time. A surveillance camera across the street captured the killing and abduction. Our suspect is a Cuban male between the ages of 35 and 50, about six-foot-two and powerfully built. He’s excessively vain, and likes to spend money on clothes. He may have once driven a van or a school bus for a living.”

Vick caught a movement out of the corner of her eye. Linderman stood next to the wall with Moody, and was motioning for her to slow down. She abruptly stopped talking. The sound of pencils scratching away on notepads filled the room. Every single detective was busily writing down notes. They’re listening to me, she thought.

In the back, a black female detective raised her hand.

“Yes, detective,” Vick said.

“Does our killer have a name?” the detective asked.

Vick thought back to the prostitutes they’d questioned that morning.

“Mr. Clean,” she said.

Everyone wrote it down.

“Mr. Clean is on a roll, and has become empowered by his crimes,” Vick continued. “More than likely, he believes the police will never apprehend him. With the sheriff department’s help, the FBI wants to set a trap, and see if we can catch him.”

Vick paused to let the detectives catch up. She had them now. It was her case.

“Our trap will be a special web site devoted to Mr. Clean’s crimes,” Vick went on. “The site will contain information about the three victims, and will invite viewers to share any thoughts or tips through a blog. This blog will have a special filter that will capture the IP addresses of anyone who visits it, along with the physical address of their computer.

“I know what you’re thinking. What if a few thousand people visit the site? What then? Well, the FBI has used web sites to capture serial killers before. We’ve discovered that these sites get heavy traffic the first day, followed by a second wave of visitors that include the victims’ families, friends, and often the killers themselves, who are interested in reading about the investigation, and what people say about them.

“Any good trap needs bait. The site will contain information about Mr. Clean which we know isn’t true, and is designed to entice him to respond. For example, we may say on the site that we think Mr. Clean has a low IQ, when in fact we know he’s above average intelligence. Or, we might say he’s a poor dresser. If we hit the right buttons, he’ll respond on the blog, and correct us. Once he does, we’ll track him down and catch him. Any questions?”

Several hands went up. Vick picked a Latino detective in a middle row.

“It sounds like you’ve got all the bases covered,” the Latino detective said. “What can we do?”

“This site is going to be presented as property of the Broward County Sheriff’s Department,” Vick replied. “It’s essential that the sheriff’s department play along. We need a detective to act as a spokesperson, and talk to the media. And, all of you must talk this up with the rank and file officers you come in contact with.”

“You want us to lie to other cops about the investigation?” the Latino detective asked.

“Yes,” Vick said.

“That’s not ethical.”

“No, but it’s necessary to our investigation.”

“Why? Do you think Mr. Clean is a cop?” the Latino detective asked.

A murmur went through the room. Vick cleared her throat.

“No, but he listens to cops,” she said.

There was a bottle of water on the table beside her. Vick unscrewed the top and took a swallow. The room had grown deathly still.

“The FBI has discovered an interesting trait among serial killers in recent years,” Vick said. “Many of these killers use scanners to monitor patrol car conversations. If we give one story to the media, while speaking the truth amongst ourselves, Mr. Clean might hear it, and figure out what’s going on. We can’t let that happen. Every cop in Broward County needs to be in the same church, singing out of the same pew. Understood?”

The Latino detective nodded solemnly. So did the other detectives packed into the conference room. Vick felt like she’d dodged a bullet, and decided to wrap things up.

“By the end of the day, each one of you will receive an artist’s composite of Mr. Clean, plus photographs taken off the surveillance store film,” she said. “The web site should be up and running by tonight. Please refer to it, and memorize the details. Any questions?”

DuCharme threw his hand into the air. He was the last person in the room she had expected to field a question from.

“Yes, Detective DuCharme,” she said.

“What’s he doing to them?” DuCharme asked.

The question caught Vick off guard. “Excuse me?”

“Mr. Clean. What’s he doing to his victims?”

“We don’t know what he’s doing to them, detective.”

DuCharme sat up straight in his chair. There was a gleam in his eye that she didn’t like, and she sensed he wasn’t going to let it go. Fucker.

“I thought serial killers used their victims to act out their fantasies,” DuCharme said, talking as much to the other detectives as to her. “That’s the gig, isn’t it?”

“Yes, detective, that’s the gig.”

“Then you must have a theory.”

“The FBI does not entertain theories, just facts, detective.”

“Were the victims tortured?”

“No.”

“Sexually abused?”

“There was no evidence of that.”

“You must have found something.”

DuCharme was needling her. If Vick didn’t stop him right now, she’d run the risk of losing whatever credibility she’d established with his peers.

“There were ligature marks on the victims’ wrists and ankles,” Vick said. “Our lab has confirmed that Nardelli and Reedy were bound to a chair for several days with two inch wide leather straps. However, neither victim was physically tortured nor sexually abused, but in fact appeared to have been treated well by their captor. Both had full stomachs of food when we found them, and were dressed in very nice clothes which Mr. Clean gave to them.”

“What’s he doing — killing them with kindness?” DuCharme asked.

The line got a big laugh from the other detectives. Even Sheriff Moody got in on the fun. Vick had been raised in a household without laughter. Hearing it now made her feel like she was being mocked. She slammed the desk with her open palm, the sound sending a shock wave through the room.

“In case you didn’t hear me, Detective DuCharme, Mr. Clean is murdering his victims with a point blank shot to the head,” Vick said. “If we don’t find him quickly, he’ll kill Wayne Ladd in the same fashion. Now, are there any more questions?”

There were none. She glanced at Linderman, and saw him nod approvingly.

“Thank you for your time, and have a pleasant day,” Vick said.

Chapter 5

Wayne Ladd could not shut his eyes.

He sat in a chair with a metal device strapped to his head that felt like a vice. The device had a pair of eyepieces that came down around his face, forcing both his eyes to stay open. He would have ripped the device off, only his arms were tied to the arms of a chair by thick leather straps.

He was scared.

He was in a small room with muted florescent lighting and a vanilla concrete floor. The walls were lined with something that looked like cork. A high-definition TV hung from the wall in front of him, the screen blank. Music blared through a pair of wall speakers, the Beatle’s Helter Skelter.

He was in hell.

He felt a sneeze coming on. He had read once that if a person sneezed with their eyelids open, their eyes would pop right out of their head. He filled his lungs with air and held his breath, and finally the sneeze went away.

He wanted to cry.

He had lost many things in his young life — his freedom, his friends, his older brother — yet losing his vision seemed far worse than any of those losses. Even worse than dying, he thought.

A film started to play on the TV. A porno movie, only not the kind he liked. There was no kissing or hugging or people talking dirty as they tore off each others clothes. He enjoyed those kind of movies. Instead, an enormous black man wearing a huge dildo with a red pump was raping a very scared white woman tied to a table. Watching it made his entire body shiver.

“Turn it off,” Ladd said loudly.

The porno movie continued to play. Ladd tried desperately to look away. He didn’t want to be watching this, or wake up in the middle of the night, thinking about it. He had enough nightmares to deal with.

He turned his thoughts to Amber, his girlfriend. She was sixteen, with long blond hair that teased her shoulders, emerald green eyes, and a pierced naval that turned him on. One night when Amber’s parents were out, they’d torn off each others clothes and had sex on the floor of her living room. They’d made love three times in a row, with each time being better than the last. Amber had taken him to a place that he hadn’t known existed.

Amber had known more about sex than any girl he’d ever dated, and he’d only stopped making love to her because his penis started to burn. They’d lain on the floor and held each other, and he’d told her his deepest secrets.

“Why won’t you go to the police, and tell them?” she’d whispered.

“Because I can’t,” he’d said.

“But you should. You should tell them the truth.”

“It’s not that easy.”

For a long time they’d said nothing, content to stare at the ceiling.

“I love you, Wayne,” she’d whispered.

“I love you, too,” he’d said.

“I don’t want you dating other girls anymore.”

“You want to go steady?”

“Yes. Say you won’t go out with anyone but me. Please.”

“I won’t go out with anyone but you,” he’d promised.

It had been a tough promise to keep. Wayne had more girls in his life than he could handle. It had started right after his arrest for murdering his mother’s boyfriend. Two girls from his highschool who’d never given him the time of day had posted naked photos of themselves on his Facebook page, while another had sent him a sex video on his cell phone. On the video, she had fondled herself while purring his name over and over.

Amber was different. She’d slipped a letter into his locker at school, and asked him to go out. On their first date, they’d sat in her car in a parking lot, and talked for hours. Right then, he’d known she was special.

The door opened, and his captor entered the room. He was a big Cuban with graying temples and cloudy, expressionless eyes. He wore shiny black boxing shorts and no shirt. His upper torso was ripped. In his hands was a device that looked like the blood pressure machine in the supermarket that the old folks lined up to use.

“How do you like the movie?” the Cuban asked.

Ladd didn’t answer. He still hadn’t figured out the Cuban’s deal. He wasn’t like the demented killers in the slasher movies. His voice was soft, and he had a funny little smile that never seemed to go away. He was also a cook, and had made chicken and yellow rice for lunch, which had tasted pretty good.

The Cuban knelt down beside his chair.

“How do you like the movie?” he repeated, raising his voice.

“It’s sick,” Ladd said.

The Cuban’s eyebrows rose like question marks.

“He’s hurting her,” Wayne said.

“That doesn’t make you want to have sex?”

“No.”

“Would you like to see something else?”

“Yes.”

“What would you like to see?”

“Does it have to be porno?”

The Cuban laughed without any sound coming out of his mouth.

“Something where the sex is normal,” Wayne said.

“Very well.”

The Cuban’s hands began to undo Ladd’s pants.

“Hey — cut it out!” the teenager said.

He pulled Ladd’s pants and underwear down to his ankles.

“Look what a big dick you have,” he said. “That is very good.”

“What do you mean?”

“The girls like you, yes?”

Ladd swallowed the rising lump in his throat and nodded.

“You have sex a lot, yes?”

Ladd felt like the Cuban was reading his thoughts.

“Sometimes.”

“That is very good,” the Cuban repeated.

The Cuban wrapped the blood pressure cuff around Ladd’s penis, and pumped it up so it was not too tight. He turned on the black box attached to the cuff, and several colored lights on the front panel started to blink. He patted Ladd on the shoulder.

“Take this thing off my face,” the teenager said.

“I cannot do that,” the Cuban replied.

“If I sneeze, my eyeballs will pop out.”

The Cuban considered it. “I am going to put a new movie on. Promise me you’ll watch it, and I’ll take the device off.”

“I’ll watch the movie. I promise.”

The Cuban removed the metal device from Ladd’s head and tousled his hair. It was the strangest thing. Wayne sensed that his captor liked him.

The Cuban walked out of the room. Moments later, the movie on the TV changed. Ladd felt something drop in his stomach. The new movie had been taken with a jittery hand-held camera, and showed a bearded man in hunting clothes chasing through the woods after a screaming young girl. The music coming out of the speakers changed as well. The Stones’ Midnight Rambler, Mick Jagger singing about sticking a knife down a woman’s throat.

Ladd averted his eyes. From out of nowhere came the Cuban’s booming voice.

“I’m watching you!”

Ladd refused to look at the TV.

“Do it right now!”

The Cuban didn’t sound friendly anymore. Ladd forced himself to accept the terrifying situation he was in. If he didn’t comply to the Cuban’s wishes, the Cuban would hurt him. That was how it worked in the slasher movies, and it was no different here.

“Look at the fucking film!”

Ladd made himself stare at the TV. The hunter had torn off the girl’s clothes and was tying her to a tree. The machine attached to the blood pressure cuff let out a loud beep. He looked down at his crotch. His penis had gone limp.

Ladd knew it was the wrong reaction. The Cuban hadn’t strapped a cuff on his dick for it to go limp. The Cuban wanted his dick to go hard. That was the game.

Give the Cuban what he wants, and maybe he won’t hurt you, he thought.

Ladd looked at sickness on the TV while thinking about Amber, and their last night together. He got an erection despite of everything. The machine let out another beep, this one much louder than before.

He imagined the Cuban in the next room, smiling to himself.

Chapter 6

Sky Tell Communications was one of four regional phone carriers doing business in Broward County. According to Google, the company made its money leasing pay phones to convenience stores and shopping malls. The company’s owner, a Russian named Dimitri Tursenev, was also on Google, and had spent six months in prison for running hookers through a string of strip clubs he owned on South Beach.

With Vick now running the investigation, Linderman had offered to contact Sky Tell, and trace Mr. Clean’s early morning phone call. Normally, that would have meant calling the company, invoking the Patriot Act, and requesting their phone records. Only the owner’s background was a red flag, so he’d driven to company headquarters in Lauderdale Lakes, and punched the buzzer while showing his badge to the surveillance camera over the front door.

“Yes?” a female asked over the intercom.

“FBI. Open up,” Linderman replied.

Static came out of the box like crowd noise at a football game. There was no shade over the front door, and beads of sweat marched down his back.

“Do you have a subpoena?” the female asked.

“No. Make me get one, and I’ll turn the place upside down.”

The door buzzed entry, and he walked down a hallway to where a nervous receptionist sat at a desk. Her hair was dyed a color you didn’t find in nature, and she had enough rings in her face to hang a shower curtain.

“Who’s in charge?” he asked.

“May I see your ID?”

He held his laminated identification card in front her face.

“Now,” he said with emphasis.

“I called Dimitri. He’ll be right out.”

The door behind her opened. A large, balding Russian dressed in black came out, his left foot hobbled by a plaster cast.

“Dimitri Tursenev?” Linderman asked.

“That is me. What is this about?” the Russian asked timidly.

“I’m conducting a criminal investigation. A suspect in a case made a phone call from one of your pay phones this morning. I want to know who he called.”

“You want to see my phone logs?”

“Yes, if you don’t mind.”

Tursenev visibly relaxed. He opened his arms as if greeting an old friend.

“Of course. Step into my office.”

Linderman followed him through the door. The FBI had followed a wave of Russian mobsters who had swept into the United States during the past decade. With briefcases filled with cash, they’d bought homes and businesses and taken on the American dream, some succeeding, others failing miserably. Tursenev — bloated, poorly dressed, his face more confused than proud — appeared to be one of those failures.

The office had cheap bamboo shades covering the windows and faded carpet. A coin-counting machine filled with quarters sat behind the desk. The article on Google had said that Tursenev’s strip clubs had made a hundred thousand a week before being shut down. The big Russian had fallen hard.

“So how may I help the world’s greatest crime-fighting organization this morning?” Tursenev asked.

Linderman produced a slip of paper containing the address of the pay phone which Mr. Clean had used. “I need to see a log of calls placed from this phone.”

Tursenev studied the slip, then consulted a map of Broward County hanging on the wall. Finding the address, he dropped himself into a swivel chair, and let his pudgy fingers dance across his computer keyboard. “Each Sky Tell phone has a six-digit code. The code acts as a password, and will let me find the information you want in our computer system.”

A short list of numbers filled the computer screen. Linderman came around the desk to have a better look. As he did, Tursenev stiffened.

“Something wrong?”

“It is nothing,” the big Russian said.

Tursenev’s eyes darted to the canvas bag lying beneath the desk. Linderman felt tempted to pull the bag out, and have a look inside. Only that wasn’t why he was here. Instead, he pointed at the computer screen.

“Are these the calls originating from that phone?”

“Yes,” Tursenev said under his breath.

Linderman stared at the list. Only one phone call had been made between seven and seven-fifteen that morning. The call had a nine-zero-four area code, which was the area code for Jacksonville, Florida. Mr. Clean had called someone in Jacksonville before he’d murdered the Harmony driver and abducted Wayne Ladd. If Linderman could track that person down, he’d be one step closer to learning Mr. Clean’s identity.

“I need a copy of this page,” Linderman said.

Tursenev hit a command on the keyboard. The printer on the desk purred like a kitten, and a sheet spit out. Linderman removed it from the tray, and placed it on the desk.

“I want you to sign and date this, and authenticate that this phone number came from this pay phone,” Linderman said.

Tursenev made a pen appear and signed his name with a flourish. Linderman signed and dated the page as well, just in case it needed to be later used as evidence in court. He folded the sheet and slipped it into his jacket pocket.

“Are we done?” Tursenev asked.

“Yes. Thank you for your help.”

Tursenev pulled a metal flask and two shot glasses from his desk drawer. “I sense you have found something which is important to your investigation,” he said, filling the glasses with a clear liquid. “I believe a toast is in order.”

“What are you pouring?” Linderman asked.

“Vodka.”

“No thanks.”

“I will not tell, if that is what you are thinking.”

Tursenev raised one of the shot glasses to his lips and waited. Linderman found himself being tempted. Maybe a quick jolt would lift him out of his dark mood. After all, it was his day off, and he could do whatever the hell he wanted.

He picked up the shot glass.

“To your health,” Tursenev said.

“And to yours.”

They clinked glasses. Tursenev smile broadly, his mouth filled with dark, crooked teeth. Linderman saw something in that smile that he hadn’t seen before. It was the look of a man who’d succumbed to temptation long ago, and who’d helped him solely because he was afraid Linderman might search his office, and discover all sorts of bad things. It was the face of the devil, hidden behind a pleasant Russian accent.

He had known many men like Tursenev; they were the bane of his existence. To let Tursenev penetrate his defenses was a mistake, for it would taint his ability to do his job, and rub against his soul like a rough stone. Linderman had to stay clean. He had come to that conclusion long ago, for it was the only way to stay out of the abyss.

He put the shot glass down and left the office.

9/11 had changed many things in criminal investigations. Perhaps the most notable was the ability to track a phone number, be it a land line, or a cell phone. In the old days, the process took time and sometimes even court orders, and often brought investigations to a standstill. Today, the process was much faster, with the three major phone companies willing to give up the information to any government agency who requested it.

With his car’s AC blasting in his face, Linderman sent out official FBI information requests on his laptop to AT&T, Verizon, and Sprint, asking them to supply him with the name of the owner of the 904 telephone number.

Five minutes later, one of the companies replied.

The company was Verizon. The 904 number which Mr. Clean had called belonged to cell phone owned by a Verizon customer named Eric Drake who lived at 387 Foxtrot Road in Jacksonville.

It was a good start.

Linderman called Verizon’s corporate office in lower Manhattan, and asked for their legal department. Soon he was speaking to a company lawyer, who informed him that Verizon would not produce logs of customer calls without court orders. Linderman told the lawyer the investigation involved the abduction of a minor. That changed things. “Promise me a subpoena signed by week’s end, and I’ll email you the information immediately,” the lawyer said.

“You’ve got it,” Linderman said.

“Give me your email address,” the lawyer said.

An email from Verizon soon appeared on his laptop. Finding a McDonald’s, he ate lunch in his car while studying a spread sheet showing every call made and received on Eric Drake’s cell phone in the past twelve months.

On average, Drake made seven outgoing calls a week on his cell phone, with all of the calls made late at night. Every outgoing call was made to a 954 or 754 area code, which was Broward County. The calls were to different numbers, with not a single duplication over a twelve-month period. Either Drake knew several hundred people in Broward — which was unlikely — or he calling pay phones so the calls couldn’t be traced.

The incoming calls to Drake’s cell phone were the same, only less in volume. Drake received one or two incoming calls a week, all from Broward County, and all from different numbers. It was highly suspicious, and suggested that Drake was running some sort of criminal operation.

Linderman decided to run a background check to see if Drake had a record. Using his laptop, he went to the FBI’s National Instant Criminal Background Check System, and typed in Drake’s name and address. The system was far from instant, and a Please Stand By message appeared on his screen.

Then he had a thought. Regardless of what he found, either he or Vick would want to fly to Jacksonville, and interview Drake. At some point, the director of the FBI’s Jacksonville office would have to get involved. Better now than later, he decided.

Vaughn Wood ran the FBI’s Jacksonville office, and had gone through the FBI academy with Linderman. Wood had made his chops doing undercover work, and had brought down an outlaw motorcycle gang. Linderman was one of the few people who knew Wood’s nickname when he’d run with the gang. They’d called him Little Jesus.

He called Wood’s office line, and heard his friend pick up.

“Hey, Ken, I’m in the middle of lunch. How’s it going?”

“I need a favor, LJ. Have you ever run across a guy named Eric Drake? He had a cell phone conversation with a serial killer this morning. I’m trying to find out why.”

“He lives in Jax?”

“According to phone records, yes.”

“Name doesn’t ring any bells. Are you sure the name is real?”

“What do you mean?”

“A lot of criminals use aliases when they purchase cell phones. That way, we can’t run them down.”

“I don’t know if the name is real, or not.”

“Let me see what I can dig up,” Wood said. “Call you back on this number?”

“I’ll be here.”

Linderman sat in the McDonald’s parking lot and waited for a call back. He had spent most of his career toiling in an office at Quantico, protected from the outside world. Only since becoming a field agent had he experienced the bitter pill when a case broke bad, and all his hard work led to nothing.

Wood called him back. He wanted the news to be good, and the dark clouds swirling around him to evaporate. He answered by saying, “That was fast.”

“This is a beauty,” Wood said.

“Let me guess. Drake has a criminal record a mile long.”

“Actually, he’s clean as a whistle. Never committed a crime in his life, as far as we know.”

“Then why is this a beauty?”

“Eric Drake is a guard at Florida State Prison in Starke.”

Chapter 7

Linderman knew of Florida State Prison. Also known as Starke Prison, it was a brutal correctional facility in north/central Florida that housed some of the worst criminals in the country, many of whom sat on death row, awaiting the executioner’s call.

Eric Drake had been a guard at Starke Prison for three and a half years, and presently worked the graveyard shift. Thirty-three years old, he was a highschool grad with four years in the Navy. He shared a house in nearby Jacksonville with his brother, Randy, a known crystal meth dealer. Outside of his brother’s lengthy rap sheet, there were no blemishes on Drake’s resume.

Linderman was deeply concerned by this new twist in the investigation. Starke Prison housed a number of notorious serial killers, several of whom he’d profiled while at Quantico. Eric Drake came in contact with those offenders every day, and now he was linked with another serial killer, this one on the outside. Linderman’s gut told him there was a link, and he needed to find out what it was.

“How badly do you want to talk to this guy?” Wood asked.

“Badly,” Linderman replied. “A serial killer named Mr. Clean spoke with Drake this morning. I want to know why.”

“Should I haul him in?”

“I’d prefer if you put Drake under Special Ops, and watch him. I need to talk to the agent handling the case about our next step.”

“Who’s in charge?”

“Rachel Vick.”

“You pick Vick in charge?”

“She asked, so I said yes.”

“Do you think she’s ready?”

“She needed to get her feet wet. I’ll call you once I know something.”

Linderman drove to the Broward County Sheriff’s Department headquarters on Andrews Avenue. Special Ops was a surveillance procedure used by the FBI to monitor people of interest, and employed wire-tapping, hidden tracking devices, and small planes and helicopters to follow a person’s movements twenty-four/seven. It was a real life Big Brother, and he hoped it turned up information that explained what Drake was doing.

Sheriff’s headquarters was humming as he walked in, a mixture of uniformed cops, lawyers in expensive suits, and their clients in cheap threads. The food chain in law enforcement was strange that way; only the hired mouths seemed to prosper.

He showed his ID to the receptionist, and asked for Vick. He was directed to the third floor, office at the end of the hall. Rachel was at a computer when he entered.

“Good morning. How’s it going?” he asked.

“I’m almost done,” Vick replied. “The web site devoted to catching Mr. Clean will be ready to go live this afternoon. Tell me what you think.”

He pulled up a chair. You couldn’t be in the forensic business without being computer literate, and he recognized his own limitations. That was why he liked to work with young people. They’d grown up playing on computers, and were more comfortable with them than driving cars.

The web site Vick had created to catch Mr. Clean was a static site, without any streaming audio or fancy computer graphics. In that regard, it was identical to other web sites run by the Broward Police, and used the same color schemes and typeface. A letter on the home page from Chief Moody contained his smiling photo.

The site had three distinct areas. The first was devoted to information about the abductions and killings; the second, a physical profile of Mr. Clean along with an artist’s composite; the third, a blog where people could share tips or exchange ideas about the case.

There was a certain clumsiness to the site that was immediately evident, including a number of misspelled words and an occasional grammatical mistake. He assumed that Vick had found similar mistakes on other web sites run by the Broward cops, and had decided to emulate them.

Vick had also decided to play a psychological game with Mr. Clean. In the profile area, she’d referred to Mr. Clean as “a sloppy dresser,” when in fact they knew he was meticulous about his appearance. She had also stated that their suspect was “Hispanic, possibly of Mexican descent” when they knew he was Cuban. Vick had purposely included these mistakes on the site to target Mr. Clean’s vanity, and irritate him. Hopefully, he’d come onto the site, and post a correction on the blog.

“I like it,” Linderman said. “What software did you use?”

“Dream catcher,” Vick said.

“How will you track viewers who come on the site?”

“I’m going to place an alarmed visual traceroute program in front of the site. If anyone accesses the site, either by hacking or through authorized channels, a notice of the person’s ISP and physical location will be instantly sent to my BlackBerry. Using that information, I should be able to find out who that person is, and run a background check on them. If they’re someone of interest, I’ll proceed accordingly.”

Vick made it sound like another day at the office. Only it seldom worked out that way; serial killers often understood computers and the Internet as well as they did. He said, “When do you plan to go live with this?”

“By six o’clock. I want to make tonight’s local news broadcasts. Chief Moody has agreed to have one of his detectives hold a press conference, and trumpet the site. The publicity should generate a wave of viewers the first night. After that, traffic will thin out, and only family members and the morbidly curious will visit. And hopefully our killer.”

“Which detective is going to the media?”

“DuCharme.”

Linderman frowned. “Why him?”

“He was the first plainclothes detective at the crime scene, and spoke with a newspaper reporter. He also broke the news to Wayne Ladd’s mother yesterday. Chief Moody felt that for continuity’s sake, DuCharme should be the police’s face on the case.”

“How do you feel about that?”

Vick started to reply, then stopped. Rising from her chair, she went to the door, shut it, then sat back down. “DuCharme’s an asshole. He also thinks he’s God’s gift to women. Personally, I’d rather not work with him, but I think Moody has a valid point.”

“You don’t want DuCharme jeopardizing your investigation. Get rid of him the moment he starts acting up. Understand?”

Vick’s face reddened. She mumbled “Yes, sir.” and nodded stiffly. She acted flustered, and it made Linderman wonder if he’d made the right decision in turning the case over to her. There could be no hesitation or second-guessing when dealing with evil. He stared at the web site she’d created to catch their killer.

“I tracked down the person Mr. Clean called from the pay phone this morning,” he said. “His name is Eric Drake. He lives in Jacksonville, and works as a guard at Florida State Prison in Starke.”

“Mr. Clean called a prison guard?”

“Yes. According to Drake’s phone records, he’s received several hundred phone calls from Broward County over the past twelve months, all from different numbers and no number twice. A rather odd pattern, don’t you think?”

He watched Vick’s reflection in the computer screen. She started to reply, but bit her lip instead. He who hesitates is lost.

“Drake must somehow be connected to these crimes,” Vick said. “One of us needs to fly to Jacksonville, and talk with him.”

“I agree.”

Another pause. Come on.

“I think I should stay here, and monitor the web site traffic in case Mr. Clean posts a comment,” Vick said. “Would you feel comfortable interviewing Drake? I know that today is the anniversary of your daughter’s disappearance. I can get another agent to go if you’d rather be home with your wife.”

Did he want to be home with Muriel, sharing this miserable day? Or would he feel better putting the screws to a suspect, and not thinking about Danni? The answer was as obvious as it was uncomfortable for him to accept, and he rose from his chair.

“I’ll go,” he said.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure.”

He walked out of the office. She met up with him at the bank of elevators, and touched the sleeve of his jacket. The gesture reminded him of Muriel trying to break down his stony resolve, but never quite getting through.

“I’m sorry, Ken. I know this must be hard.”

“Thank you, Rachel.”

An elevator came. He stuck his foot in the door instead of getting on.

“I have a suggestion to make,” he said. “There’s an ex-cop named Jack Carpenter you should get in touch with. Carpenter once ran the Broward Sheriff Department’s Missing Persons Unit, but got kicked off the force for being an avenging angel. He specializes in tracking abductors. He might have some insights on Mr. Clean.”

“What kind of insights?” Vick asked.

The elevator door was trying to eat his foot. He kicked it hard, and sent the door back. “Mr. Clean is treating his victims well for a period of time, then killing them. That doesn’t follow any pattern I’ve ever seen. Maybe Carpenter will know what it means.”

“How do I find him?”

“Carpenter keeps an office over a bar in Dania called Tugboat Louie’s. Call the bar, and ask for him. Use my name if you’d like.”

“You said Carpenter’s an avenging angel. I’m afraid I’m not familiar with that term.”

“It’s someone who believes in justice more than the law.”

He stepped onto the elevator and hit the button for the ground floor. Vick remained in the hall, looking slightly bewildered. He wondered if he’d cut the cord too soon, and if she’d be lost without his guidance. He watched the door close in her face.

“I’ll call you once I land in Jacksonville,” he called out.

“Please,” Vick said.

Chapter 8

The sun was setting as Vick pulled into Tugboat Louie’s. The press conference had gone smoothly. DuCharme had managed to talk for five minutes without stepping on his dick. The detective had announced the launching of the web site, and asked the public to help them catch Mr. Clean. It was the right message to be sending out, and Vick felt like she’d done everything she could to set a trap for their killer.

She crossed the parking lot smelling warm beer. It reminded her of her first weekend in college, when she’d drank so much at a party that she’d passed out. A roommate had told her this was a sign of alcoholism, only Vick had known otherwise. There had been no booze in her house growing up, her father a strict Baptist minister opposed to having fun. Getting shit-faced had been nothing more than a late awakening.

Louie’s was a madhouse. It was happy hour, and pretty young women were dancing on tables to the jukebox while men in suits wildly clapped their hands. A smiling middle-eastern man wearing a black bow tie and a white cotton shirt greeted her.

“Some ID, please,” the smiling man said.

It was not the first time Vick had been carded in a bar. The smiling man examined her credentials as if they might be fake, then handed them back.

“I’m looking for Jack Carpenter. I called earlier,” Vick said.

“Ah, yes. I remember you now.” He unhooked a chain in front of a narrow stairwell. “Go upstairs, last door on the right.”

She glanced into the bar before going up. U2's Joshua Tree was on the jukebox, and the place had gone wild. She tried to imagine herself dancing on a table with her skirt hiked up and a bottle of beer in her hand. Maybe in another lifetime, she thought.

Upstairs smelled like low tide. The door to Carpenter’s office was ajar, and she rapped lightly on the frame.

“Come on in,” a man’s voice said.

She pushed the door open with her foot. Jack the avenging angel stood at the window on the other side of the room, the lights from Louie’s marina dancing on his rugged face. Tall, lean and beach-bum handsome, he wore faded khakis and a Tommy Bahama shirt missing several buttons, his skin as bronzed as a penny.

“I’m Special Agent Vick. I called earlier,” she said.

“Is special your first name, or agent?”

“It’s Rachel.”

“I’m Jack. Nice to meet you. Make yourself at home.”

She shut the door behind her. A brown, tailless dog crossed the office and sniffed her shoes. Growing up, she’d owned a dog named King who’d never been allowed inside her house. Many a winter night had been spent on the back porch with King shivering beneath a wool blanket. She petted Carpenter’s dog.

“Pound pup?” she asked.

“Yeah. How’d you know?”

“They respond differently to affection.”

“You’re very observant. Have a seat.”

Vick sat in the folding chair in front of Carpenter’s desk. Her eyes fell on the photographs taped to the wall behind the desk. Nine girls, three boys. In the margins were dates written in black magic marker that stretched back ten years. One was of Danni Linderman, her lips spread in a thin Mona Lisa smile. Vick had seen photos of Danni before, but not this one. The resemblance between her and Ken was unnerving. Same high forehead, same mouth, same intelligent eyes. Had Vick not known better, she would have thought they were twins.

“Do you think she’s still alive?” Vick asked.

Carpenter quizzed her with a glance.

“Danni Linderman,” she explained.

“I never think those thoughts,” he said.

He sounded like one of her instructors at the academy. Until a body is found, you must assume the victim is still alive. She took a deep breath.

“Perhaps I should explain why I’m here.”

“Please.”

“The FBI is chasing a serial killer who’s abducting violent teenage boys, treating them well for a few days, then killing them. He abducted his third victim this morning from a rehab facility in Fort Lauderdale. His patterns don’t match anyone we’ve chased before. I’d like to get your opinion on what his motives might be.”

“Why are you calling him a serial killer if they are only two victims?”

“His skill sets match those of another serial killer. He’s also arrogant in the manner in which he disposes of his victims. We’re certain he’s done this many times before.”

“You mean he’s killed before.”

“That’s right.”

“But you think the abductions are something new.”

“That’s our impression, yes.”

“May I ask you a question?”

“Of course.”

“Did Linderman tell you to come see me, or did you come on your own?”

His words had a bite to them. Vick folded her hands in her lap.

“Ken suggested it,” she replied.

“I’ll tell you why I ask. I’ve talked to plenty of FBI agents. The majority don’t want to hear what I have to say. They come to me for the same reason they go to see psychics. It lets them tell their bosses they left no stones unturned.”

Vick instantly understood. Carpenter had been burned. She rose and crossed the room so she was standing beside him. “You’ve been in the business from the start. The FBI got into the business later in the game. You know a lot more than we do.”

“Who told you that?”

“I figured it out myself. South Florida is ground zero for child abductions. After Adam Walsh was abducted, the boy’s father couldn’t get any satisfaction from the police or the FBI, so he started his own grass roots movement. One of his missions was to get police departments to create special units to hunt for missing kids. The first departments to do that were in South Florida. You ran the Broward unit for fourteen years, and put hundreds of abductors behind bars. You have more experience than the FBI does when it comes to dealing with these people. That’s why I’m here.”

Carpenter did not respond. Instead he just stared, his eyes boring a hole into her soul. The phone on his desk rang. He answered it, then put the caller on hold.

“Want a burger?” he asked.

The question caught Vick off guard. She had thought he might throw her out.

“Love one,” she said.

“How do you like it cooked?”

“Rare.”

“Two bloody, all the way,” he said into the phone.

The smiling middle-eastern man entered the office holding a tray with two hamburger plates and a couple of sodas. He served them, placed a bowl of table scraps onto the floor for the dog, and left without uttering a word.

Carpenter ate his food while reading the case report Vick had brought. The report chronicled Mr. Clean’s crimes, and included grisly crime scene photographs of the first two victims. It was said that a killer was soulless if he could eat a meal after taking someone’s life. The opposite was true in police work. Cops were routinely subjected to photos of killings and death, which most could eat through without a problem.

Her host finished his meal and the report at the same time. There was a scowl on his face and his eyes betrayed concern. He placed his elbows on his knees and folded his hands beneath his chin. His eyes took on a faraway expression.

“That bad?” Vick asked.

“Troubling,” he said.

The word gave her pause. Jack Carpenter did not impress her as a man who was bothered by much. She put her burger down and wiped her chin with a paper napkin.

“Please tell me what you’re thinking,” she said.

“Mr. Clean is not acting like a serial killer. He’s acting like a serial abductor. Serial killers don’t become serial abductors.”

“They don’t?”

“Not that I’ve ever seen. They’re two different species of criminals.”

“What about Ted Bundy and Simon Skell? They were both serial killers who abducted their victims and later killed them.”

“Bundy and Skell were not serial abductors. Bundy coaxed young women into his car and bludgeoned them to death. The abduction was strictly a mechanism to capture his victim. He was not abducting the girls to keep them.

“The same was true with Skell. Skell and his gang abducted women from their apartments, took them to Skell’s house, and eventually killed them. The women were kept in dog crates and were not fed. From the moment Skell got his hands on those women, he began to kill them, even though the process took a while.

“Your abductor is not following that pattern. He’s profiling violent teenage boys, abducting them, and keeping them for an extended period. He’s not torturing them, and appears to be feeding them well. Why he’s killing them is a mystery, but he’s doing it humanely — one shot in the head with a hollow point bullet at close range. Based upon your report, I’d say he’s forming a bond with them.”

“You think so?”

“Yes. It happens with every abduction. The abductor has to care for the victim, and make sure they’re doing okay. As a result, a bond forms. The longer the abduction lasts, the stronger the bond becomes. This never happens with serial killers. They either kill their victims immediately, or kill them slowly. There’s never time for a bond to form.”

“So what is Mr. Clean? A serial killer, or a serial abductor?”

“It appears he was a serial killer who’s become a serial abductor.”

“Have you ever seen that before?”

“No. That’s why the case is so troubling.”

Her host rose and went to the window to look down on the marina. She put her finished plate on his desk and joined him. Down below, the party from the bar had spilled out onto the dock, with a gang of drunken revelers forming a Conga line, their bodies bumping and grinding to the loud music. Her desire to join the party had long vanished; all she longed to do now was solve this unnerving case.

“Why did Mr. Clean change?” Vick asked.

Carpenter stared at the flat water in the marina. “Maybe he didn’t. Maybe he’s the same person he was all along, and this behavior is an aberration.”

“That doesn’t explain why he’s abducting violent boys.”

“Yes, it does. In fact, it’s the answer.”

Vick bit her lower lip so hard it made her wince. Carpenter was holding back. Not playing a game, but trying to make her think the way he thought.

“I’m sorry, but you’ve lost me,” she said.

“Mr. Clean is acting out of character. That’s not normal. My guess is, he’s working with a partner who’s calling the shots, and getting him to abduct these boys.”

Vick thought back to the phone call Mr. Clean had made at the convenience store right before abducting Wayne Ladd.

“A Svengali,” she said.

“That’s right. Serial killers can be manipulated, just like everyone else. There’s a second person working with Mr. Clean.”

“A tag-team,” Vick said.

“Is that what the FBI calls them?”

“Yes. One member of a tag-team does the dirty work, while his partner calls the shots. The second person is usually smarter and more manipulating than the first.”

“I think that’s what you’ve got here. Find the partner, and you’ll discover what Mr. Clean’s motive for abducting violent teenage boys is.”

Vick’s body tingled with excitement. At this very moment, Ken Linderman was on a plane to Jacksonville, prepared to track down the man controlling Mr. Clean. Rarely did the pieces of a puzzle fit together so neatly. A faint smile formed on her lips.

Her host turned from the window. His slate-blue eyes were dead, and Vick felt an icy finger run the length of her spine.

“This is your first time dealing with serial killers, isn’t it?” he asked.

“Yes, how did you know?”

“Just a guess.”

Chapter 9

The Bonnet House was one of Renaldo’s favorite places. A thirty-five acre barrier island off Las Olas, the estate was filled with a variety of exotic animals, including chattering Brazilian squirrel monkeys, raccoons and panthers, the animals freely roaming the grounds. He visited often, and would sit at the base of a mangrove tree, watching the animals eat each other.

Late at night, when the estate was closed, daring raccoons would scale the walls, and invade the corner of Las Olas Boulevard and A1A, their icy blue eyes shimmering in the dull street lights. They were scavengers, and would tear apart garbage cans looking for food.

Tourists often fed the raccoons, and let them touch their bodies. Tonight, a brave German stood on the corner with his arms outstretched, and let a family run up and down his body looking for nuts stuffed in his pockets. His wife stood nearby, snapping photos while shrieking with laughter.

Renaldo stood on the corner across the street. He’d seen tourists feed the raccoons before, and always wondered what would happen if the tourist sneezed, or a car beeped its horn? Would the raccoons become frightened, and bite the tourist? It seemed like the natural reaction to such a situation. His only wish was to be there when it happened.

A pay phone began to ring. Renaldo looked up and down Las Olas. It was midnight, the streets empty save for the crazy Germans. He picked up the receiver.

“Yes?”

“Hello, my friend,” the caller said.

“Hello.”

“How are you tonight?”

“I am good.”

“Was your day productive?”

“Yes. I have the boy.”

“Splendid. What is that racket in the background?”

“A woman laughing at her husband doing something stupid.”

“What, pray tell?”

“The husband is letting wild raccoons run across his body while she photographs him.”

“Are you in a zoo?”

“No, a public place.”

“How strange. Have you started the boy on the Program?”

“Yes, I started him right away.”

“How has he responded?”

“He hated the first pornographic film I showed him. He said it was sick.”

“That is not a good sign. The films are important. They open doors in the mind.”

“He liked the second film, though.”

“Really. What was it?”

“A hunter chasing a woman through the woods and raping her against a tree. The boy liked that.”

“Did you measure his erection?”

“Yes. It lasted six and a half minutes.”

“Did he still have it after the film was done?”

“Yes.”

“That’s a promising sign. Are you keeping a log of everything that happens?”

“Yes. I am eager to get to the next phase.”

“Don’t be.”

“Why?”

“Each phase is important for the boy’s evolution. Continue to show him the films until he’s ready to move forward. Don’t speed things up.”

Renaldo fell silent. He desperately wanted the Program to work. The first two times he’d tried, it had failed, and he’d had to kill the boys, who he’d grown to like for different reasons. But the new boy showed promise. The new boy had all the right ingredients to make it through the Program, and graduate.

“Still there?” his friend asked.

“Yes.”

“You have done well. I am very proud of you.”

“Thank you.” Renaldo became conscious of the time. It was growing late, and he needed to get back to the house, and check on the boy.

“I need to go,” he said.

“Tomorrow night, same time?”

“Yes.”

“Do you have a new number for me to call?”

“Yes. Hold on.”

Renaldo dug out a slip of paper containing the phone number of a payphone at the RaceTrac gas station at the intersection of Sunrise Boulevard and Andrews Avenue. Earlier that day, he’d checked the location, and deemed it safe. He read the phone number to his friend, who repeated it back to him.

“I will talk to you tomorrow night,” Renaldo said.

“One more thing.”

“What?”

“The man with the raccoons — is he still there?”

The crazy Germans were going strong. The man had refilled his pockets with nuts and gone back to his crucifix pose, the raccoons racing up and down his arms and legs while his wife leaned against the wall, weak with laughter.

“He’s here,” Renaldo said.

“Do you have a gun with you?”

“Yes, I have one.”

“I would like you to shoot it into the air. Then tell me what happens.”

There was real mischief in his friend’s voice. Renaldo checked for cars, and seeing none, knelt down and drew a .38 special from an ankle holster. Standing, he took another look around before deeming it safe.

“Ready?” he said into the phone.

“By all means.”

He fired a round into the air, the booming sound echoing across the nearby ocean. The shot was followed by a second, equally as loud.

The raccoons reacted as most animals did when hearing gunfire — and savagely bit the German on his arms, legs and face before jumping off, and scampering over the wall. The German fell to the ground in agony, his wife kneeling helplessly by his side.

“Done,” Renaldo said into the phone. “The raccoons ripped him apart.”

“How wonderful,” his friend said.

Chapter 10

The cinder block house shared by Eric and Randy Drake had a crumbling front porch and curtained windows pulled so tight that it was impossible to see inside. The patch of front lawn, flooded from a recent downpour, was gray and sickly.

Linderman sat in an unmarked van across the street, spying through binoculars. With him was Vaughn Wood and two FBI agents wearing bulletproof Kevlar vests and armed with shotguns. Down the street, their backup sat in a second van.

A strung-out man staggered out of the Drake house, and crossed the flooded lawn without seeming to care. He drove away sucking on a glass meth pipe.

“How many is that?” Wood asked.

“Six,” Linderman replied.

“I really want to shut this operation down.”

“Let’s wait until Eric gets here, okay?”

Wood fell silent. It was nearly eight a.m. Eric Drake had finished working the graveyard shift at Starke Prison, and was heading home with a Special Ops chopper on his tail. Linderman had considered arresting Eric as he got off work, but had decided it was better to meet Eric at his house, and question him inside. It would give Linderman the opportunity to look around the house for any incriminating evidence.

Only arresting Eric at home was a risk. His brother Randy was selling crystal meth out of the house, and might give them trouble. Having to deal with Randy was the price they were going to have to pay to nab Eric.

Wood’s cell phone vibrated, and he took the call . “That was the pilot of the Special Ops chopper. Eric Drake is two blocks away,” Wood said.

“Let’s grab him on the lawn,” Linderman said.

Wood called the second van and relayed the plan.

“All set,” he said, hanging up.

Thirty seconds later, a gray Ford pickup rumbled down the street and pulled into the driveway. Eric Drake got out, and stretched his arms in the air. Late thirties, he wore a pea green guard’s uniform, and had thinning hair and a droopy handlebar moustache. He didn’t look menacing, but looks were often deceiving.

Linderman drew a Glock 22 from his belt holster, and held it against his chest. At the same time, Wood drew his sidearm. The two agents in the back were fingering the shotguns in their laps. Both had been drinking coffee and were wired.

“Let’s do it,” Linderman said.

Wood called the second team on his cell phone.

“It’s show time,” Wood said into the phone.

The four men poured out of the van and sprinted across the street. At the same time, the agents in the second van jumped out, and ran toward the house. It was an impressive show of force, designed to instill terror in the heart of the Eric Drake.

It worked. Eric dropped his metal lunch box on the ground, and his eyes went wide with fear.

“FBI. Put your arms in the air,” Linderman said.

Eric threw his arms into the air and blinked several times.

“Against the car,” Linderman said.

Eric hugged the car, his legs spread wide. Linderman patted him down. His suspect was shaking from head to foot.

“Does your brother have a gun?” Linderman asked.

“You mean Randy?” Eric replied. “Yeah, he’s got a couple inside the house.”

“I want you to tell him to come outside and surrender. Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir.”

Linderman guided Eric down the front path. The other agents stood on the lawn, ankle-deep in water, their weapons trained at the house. Two of the agents were gone, and were covering the back door in case Randy should attempt to escape.

“Talk to your brother,” Linderman ordered.

“Hey, Randy, it’s me,” Eric Drake said, cupping his hands over his mouth. “You need to come outside. Do as I say, man.”

The front door cracked open, and a bloodshot eyeball stared at them.

“What the fuck’s going on? Who are these guys?” Randy Drake shouted.

“It’s the FBI,” Eric replied.

“FBI? You shitting me?”

“No, man. They want to talk to me. Come on outside,” Eric said.

Linderman was surprised. Even though Randy was running a meth lab, Eric knew the FBI was here to see him. It told him that whatever Eric was doing, he’d been doing it for a while, and his conscience was eating at him.

“How do you know it’s not some guys trying to rob us?” Randy asked.

“Randy, listen to me,” his brother pleaded.

“They could have stolen FBI badges and made up phony ID,” Randy said, his voice rising in accusation. “Happens all the time.”

Randy Drake sounded delusional. There was only one way this was going to break, and that was bad. Linderman aimed his Glock at the front door.

“Come outside with your hands up,” Linderman ordered.

“Who are you?” Randy replied.

“Special Agent Ken Linderman. Do as I say — right now!”

“Yes, sir!”

The front door banged open. Randy came onto the porch wearing a pair of bright red underwear and nothing else. He looked like his brother, only fifty pounds heavier. Drool ran down the side of his face, and his tattoo-covered arms cradled a machine- pistol.

“Fuck you, mother-fuckers!”

Randy squeezed a round over their heads. The agents returned the fire, and riddled the porch with gunfire, the bullets tearing shingles off the house. Linderman had a bead on Randy, and shot him in the shoulder and side. The bullets seemingly had no effect, and Randy laughed and slipped back inside, the door slamming shut behind him.

“Shit. He’s a meth tweaker,” Wood said.

Meth tweakers were real-life zombies. Addicted to crystal meth, they often stayed awake for weeks at a time, and did not feel pain. Stories of them being shot multiple times and not stopping were mythical within the FBI. So too were the stories of the widespread destruction they caused, and the innocent lives they took with them.

Eric was handcuffed and locked into one of the vans. Then the team swarmed onto the porch. The front door was kicked down, and they entered single-file. Linderman was the last inside, and found everyone standing in the living room, a small space filled with mis-matched furniture. Randy was not there.

“Let’s search the house,” Wood said.

The FBI did everything by the book. The house was checked using systematic search protocol, with the team going room by room, searching in closets and under beds for their suspect. After each room was checked, one agent remained behind, preventing Randy from back-tracking on them.

Linderman stayed behind in a bedroom. The room had trash on the floors, and looked like a cyclone had hit it. The smell of smoke filled his nostrils.

“I smell fire,” he called out.

He followed the smell down a hall and entered a spacious kitchen in the back of the house. The equipment used to cook crystal meth was on the stove, bubbling away. Kitty litter covered the floor, having been used to soak up spilled chemicals. Randy stood at the sink, shooting through a broken window at the two agents in the backyard.

“Freeze!” Linderman said.

Randy paid him no heed. A bullet penetrated the wall and tore through Randy’s arm, shredding the biceps. It didn’t faze him.

Linderman had to make Randy stop shooting. The combination of the boiling chemicals and gunfire could easily blow the house up, and kill everyone inside. Only Randy was too far gone to be reasoned with.

Having no other option, Linderman shot Randy in the side. It was the third time he’d put a bullet in him. Three shots was usually the charm. The machine pistol fell from Randy’s hands into the sink.

“What the hell,” Randy gasped.

Linderman lowered his gun. He’d shot men before, and the feeling was always the same; revulsion, twinged by the exhilaration that the threat had passed.

Except Randy didn’t go down. He staggered across the kitchen like he was drunk, and grabbed a carving knife off the counter. His eyes were blinking wildly and rolled up once in his head, then snapped back down.

“You’re gonna die,” Randy said.

Linderman’s Glock held fifteen rounds. He had been trained to count his shots when he fired his weapon, and knew that twelve rounds were left in the magazine.

“Stop,” the FBI agent ordered.

Randy charged him with the carving knife. Linderman squeezed the trigger and kept his finger down, the bullets popping Randy at short range. Each shot slowed him down a fraction, but did not halt his forward momentum.

When Randy was six feet away, Linderman put a bullet in his forehead. The look in his eyes said he’d sold his soul to the devil long ago.

Wood entered the kitchen as Linderman was turning off the stove.

“Jesus. How many times did you have to shoot him?” Wood asked.

“Too many.”

“We’ve got a problem. Eric is screaming for a lawyer. Says we had no right coming here without a search warrant. What do you want to do?”

If Eric Drake lawyered up, he’d never find out why he’d been talking to Mr. Clean. He hadn’t come all this way — and risked his life — to let that happen.

“Bring him into the kitchen,” Linderman said.

“You want him to see his brother?”

“Yes. I’m going to do a number on him.”

Linderman opened the kitchen door and walked down a short flight of steps into the backyard. The two FBI agents who’d been exchanging gunfire with Randy had taken up cover and concealment positions behind a rotting wood shed. “All clear,” he called out.

The two agents cautiously emerged from behind the shed. One was a woman, the other a man, their faces wet with fear.

“Is he down?” the female agent asked.

“Down and out,” Linderman replied. “I need your help.”

“Of course,” she said.

Linderman had the female agent lie on the ground on her back, and close her eyes. Next, he had the male agent place his weapon on the ground, and kneel beside her.

“Stay like that for a few minutes,” Linderman said.

“What am I supposed to be doing?” the female agent asked.

“Playing dead.”

Linderman went back inside. Wood had brought Eric Drake into the kitchen. Eric was staring at his brother’s bullet-ridden body lying on the floor. Eric’s hands were handcuffed behind his back and he was silently weeping.

“Why’d you have to shoot him so many times?” Eric said, seeing Linderman. “He didn’t deserve to die like some dog.”

Linderman pulled Eric across the kitchen to the open back door, and pointed at the female FBI agent lying on the ground. “That’s why I shot your brother,” he said.

“Is she dead?”

“Yes. Now, do you still want to call a lawyer, or would you rather make a deal?”

Eric turned away from the door. He was smart enough to know that he could be charged as an accessory to his brother’s crimes, and might spend the rest of his life in prison for killing an FBI agent.

“What do you want from me?” Eric asked.

“I want to know about the calls you’ve been making on your cell phone,” Linderman said. “If you cooperate, we’ll say you weren’t here when the shooting happened.”

“I won’t get charged with this?”

“That’s right.”

“Will Randy get all the blame?”

“Yes, Randy will get all the blame.”

“Is that a promise?”

“Yes.”

“Let me hear you say it.”

“It’s a promise. Randy will get all the blame for what happened.”

Eric glanced over his shoulder at his brother’s corpse. His look of sorrow had been replaced by outright hostility, and Linderman could only guess at the tortured relationship the two brothers had shared.

“You’ve got a deal,” Eric said.

Chapter 11

Eric sat on a sagging couch in the living room. Linderman sat directly across from their suspect, while Wood stood beside him.

Both FBI agents gave Eric hostile stares. It was an intimidating tactic used during interrogations that often scared suspects into telling the truth.

“I want to hear about the nightly phone calls you’ve been making to Broward County for the past twelve months,” Linderman said.

“I ain’t been making any calls to Broward,” Eric replied.

“I’ve got a phone log from Verizon that says otherwise,” Linderman said.

“You’ve got a what?”

“A phone log. It shows the calls you’ve been making. There are several hundred to Broward county area codes.”

“You really don’t know what’s going on, do you?” Eric replied.

Linderman pulled up the chair a little closer. He’d learned never to tell a suspect what he did, or didn’t know during an interrogation.

“There’s a bag in the cab of my pickup. That’ll explain things,” Eric said.

Wood went outside and got the bag, which he brought into the house. Inside the bag were half a dozen Nokia Cell phones. Then it clicked what Eric was doing.

“You’re renting cell phones to inmates inside Starke Prison,” Linderman said.

“That’s right,” Eric said.

“Who’s getting them?”

“I’m not really sure.”

“Stop lying, or our deal is off.”

Eric shifted uncomfortably. “All right. I deal with one inmate. His name is Raul Martinez, but everyone calls him Thunder. I rent the cell phones to him, and he doles them out to different inmates who he has agreements with. I don’t ask questions because it’s none of my fucking business. Thunder gives me the phones back every morning when I end my shift, and I bring them home, and charge them up. That’s the deal. You want to know who’s calling from Broward, talk to Thunder.”

Taking his iPhone from his pocket, Linderman got onto the Internet, and went to the FBI’s computerized index of criminal justice information in Clarksburg, West Virginia. He punched in a six-digit password to gain access, then went to the criminal record history information section, and looked for Raul “Thunder” Martinez on its search engine. Within seconds, a rap sheet and mug shot appeared on the iPhone’s screen. Martinez was from the Little Havana section of Miami, and had run with a street gang called the Latin Kings. His mug shot showed a man with no neck and a mouth filled with gold teeth.

Linderman signed off from the site and folded the phone. Eric was telling the truth. Sort of. He leaned forward in his chair. “How long has this been going on?”

“’Bout a year,” Eric said.

“How much is Thunder paying you?”

“Two hundred bucks a week per phone.”

“Who is Thunder renting the phones to inside the prison?”

“I told you — I don’t ask questions.”

“You’re lying. You know who Thunder is renting the cell phones to. It’s the only way you can protect yourself. You don’t want some inmate saying something crazy over the phone, and having it get back to you, so you make sure Thunder rents them to guys who aren’t off their rockers, or stupid enough to get caught. Tell me their names, Eric, or the deal is off.”

Eric fell back on the couch and shut his eyes. Linderman guessed he was fighting with himself. If he ratted out Thunder, he’d pay for it down the road. Men like Thunder never forgot the people who betrayed them.

Linderman stood up, his chair scraping the floor. Eric’s eyes snapped open.

“Last chance,” the FBI agent said.

“The list of names is in the glove compartment of my pickup. I keep it with my registration.”

“Does it contain all the names?”

“Yeah.”

Linderman headed for the front door. The female FBI agent he’d talked into playing dead came down the hallway and entered the living room.

“Hey — you told me she was dead!” Eric said.

“I lied,” Linderman replied.

Linderman walked outside. The pond on the front lawn was a breeding ground for mosquitoes, and he battled an angry swarm on his way to the pickup. Opening the driver’s door, he hopped in.

The pickup was old and showing its age. He popped the glove compartment and an assortment of papers and manuals fell into his hands. He sorted through them until he was holding a transparent plastic folder containing the registration. A piece of notepaper was tucked into the bottom of the folder, which he pulled out. Written across the top of the notepaper were the words Thunder’s Guys. Beneath that, the names of six men.

Alba Johnson

Claude Ricks

Ervin Gunnells

Humberto Lopez-Ortiz

Leon Kradlak

Crutch

Linderman needed to check the names, but didn’t want to type all those letters on his Iphone’s tiny keyboard. He went to the van and retrieved his laptop from the floor of the passenger seat and powered it up. Soon he was on the FBI’s web site. Using the search engine in the criminal record history information section, he pulled up the criminal file of each name on the list, and read through them.

The first five names were of prominent drug dealers. Alba Johnson and Claude Ricks had worked for the South American drug cartels and run major cocaine operations out of Miami; Ervin Gunnells had sold heroin and speed in the Tampa Bay area; Humbero Lopez-Ortiz had run a major ecstasy business in the Ocala, while Willie Kradlak had been a drug kingpin in Pensacola. This made sense. By having access to a cell phone, these men could talk to their partners on the outside, and continue to run their operations while serving out their sentences.

That left the sixth name on the list, Crutch. The name was not on the FBI’s data base. Nor did it appear when Linderman searched the “nickname” section of the site, which contained the various aliases and nicknames used by different criminals. Crutch was a mystery man.

Linderman weighed what to do. He could press Eric, but he had a feeling that Eric was not going to play ball anymore, especially since he’d already caught him in a lie. His other alternative was to call the warden at Starke Prison. As an FBI agent, he could call a federal prison at any time, and be given full access to any information that he requested.

He got the prison’s number from information, and punched it into his cell phone. An operator answered. He identified himself, and asked for the warden.

“One moment, sir,” the operator said.

He was put on hold. The mosquitoes had invaded the van and were circling for the kill. He glanced in the mirror, and saw one attached to his forehead. He squashed it with the palm of his hand, leaving a blood stain on his skin.

“Warden Jenkin’s office. This is Carol,” a secretary answered.

Linderman identified himself and asked to speak to the warden.

“Warden Jenkins is currently in a meeting, and asked not to be disturbed. May I tell him what this is about?”

“I’m calling about an inmate who may be involved in the abduction of a teenage boy in Broward County,” he said.

“An inmate in Starke?”

“That’s correct.”

“Please hold on.”

As Linderman waited, he stared at Eric Drake’s list of names. He felt certain that Crutch was the man he was looking for. Mr. Clean was a serial killer, and there was no reason for him to be talking to the other five men — all drug dealers — on the list. By process of elimination, that left Crutch.

“This is Warden Jenkins,” a man with a booming voice announced.

“Special Agent Ken Linderman, FBI. I need your help, warden. A name has come up in connection with an abduction, and we think this person is an inmate in your prison.”

“How can that be?” Jenkins asked.

“It appears this inmate has had access to a cell phone, and was talking to his accomplice on the outside.”

“How did he get a cell phone?”

“One of your guards has been bringing cell phones into the prison, and giving them to an inmate named Thunder Martinez, who was passing them out.”

“A guard? Which one?”

“His name is Eric Drake.”

Warden Jenkins delivered a stream of obscenities into the phone.

“Drake brought six cell phones into the prison,” Linderman went on. “Five of the inmates who received the phones have been identified as drug dealers. We haven’t been able to identify the sixth man yet. We have a name, but think it’s a nickname.”

“What is it?”

“Crutch.”

“Crutch? You mean Jason Crutchfield?”

“Perhaps. Is he an inmate?”

“Yes, he is, but I find it hard to believe that he’d be involved in your case. Crutch is a model prisoner, and is coming up for parole in January. He does data processing in our records department, and has never caused any problems. Why, I just saw him an hour ago. We had a nice chat about the weather.”

“Could it possibly be someone else?” Linderman asked.

“Perhaps. We have fourteen hundred inmates.”

“Would you mind checking?”

“What exactly am I looking for?”

“Anyone with the word Crutch in their name.”

“This could take a while. We’re not totally computerized.”

“How about if I call you back in an hour?”

“Very well,” the warden said.

Linderman ended the call and got back on the Internet. Warden Jenkin’s reluctance to accept that Jason Crutchfield might be involved in wrongdoing was bothersome, especially considering the source of the information.

He returned to the FBI’s web site and pulled up Crutchfield’s criminal record. Jason Richard Crutchfield had been arrested in Melbourne, Florida in 1999 for the kidnaping and rape of a woman named Lucille Moore. His mug shot showed a diminutive man with glasses perched on the end of his nose, thinning hair worn in a feeble comb over, and feral-like features too small for his face. His head was tilted sideways, his eyes staring at the camera with distrust. The report was long and meticulously detailed, and Linderman read each word feeling like he’d stumbled upon a dark and terrible secret.

Chapter 12

There are monsters, and there are monsters.

On a drizzly October morning in 1999, a thirty-three-year-old woman named Lucille Moore crawled naked down the sidewalk inside an upscale housing development in the town of Melbourne, Florida. Handcuffed and weakened by a severe loss of blood, Moore waved to passing cars until a good Samaritan came to her aid.

“Please don’t take me back to that house.” Moore pointed to a sprawling property at the end of the street with beautiful landscaping and a large swimming pool. Her rescuer wrote down the address and drove Moore to the hospital.

At the hospital, an emergency room doctor spotted bite marks on the side of Moore’s neck, and ran a series of tests that showed half the blood was gone from her body. No one at the hospital had ever seen anything like it before.

As Moore recovered, she told the police about the polite little man with the plaid sports jacket and red bow tie who’d offered her a ride home from a bar one night. Once in the car, the man had thrown a nylon rope around her neck, and strangled her unconscious.

Moore had awakened to find herself handcuffed to a shower, her kidnapper standing naked beside her. A video camera was set up, along with bright lights. With the camera rolling, her captor had raped her, then bitten her on the neck, and sucked down several pints of blood. Finished, he’d told her how delicious the blood had tasted.

Several hours hour later, the bizarre ritual had been repeated. Growing weak, Moore had realized that if she didn’t do something, she would die. Her captor had left the bathroom with the promise to be back soon. With the last of her strength, she’d ripped the showerhead out of the wall, and escaped through a window.

Moore’s abductor was soon identified by the police. Jason Crutchfield, age thirty-two, an MIT grad who worked as a computer engineer for a local NASA contractor. No criminal record, although he’d been a suspect in his college girlfriend’s slaying in Massachusetts a decade earlier, but never formally charged.

A team of policemen were sent to Crutchfield’s house armed with a search warrant. Crutchfield had greeted them at the front door wearing a satin smoking jacket and holding a pipe. When confronted, he’d claimed that he’d paid Moore for sex, and that nothing unusual had happened. He’d continued to embellish his story, and displayed all the classic signs of a sociopath.

Crutchfield was arrested, and a number of items of interest were seized from his house, including a video camera, a collection of S&M video tapes, and a stack of women’s necklaces hanging from a tie rack in his closet.

Crutchfield had refused to cut a deal with the prosecutor, and his case had gone to trial. He’d taken the witness stand in his own defense, and presented himself to the jury as a mild-mannered, soft-spoken man who listened to baseball games while tinkering with electronic gadgets in his basement. He’d stuck to his story about Moore being a prostitute, and claimed that Moore had told him she often sold her blood to raise cash.

To counter Crutchfield’s testimony, the prosecution had called Linderman’s mentor, FBI profiler Robert Kessler, as an expert witness. Kessler had worked on several cases involving human vampires, and was considered an expert on the subject.

Kessler had presented a different side to Crutchfield. He’d told the jury that the extreme physical and mental injury to Moore showed that Crutchfield was a sadist, while the presence of a video camera in the bathroom said the crime was premeditated. The manner in which Crutchfield had bitten Moore and extracted her blood indicated that he’d done this before, and the presence of the necklaces indicated there were many other victims. Clearly, Jason Crutchfield was a danger to society, and needed to be put away.

Kessler had made a strong argument for sentencing that exceeded the guidelines mandated by the court. The jury had agreed with Kessler, and had sentenced Crutchfield to fifteen years in prison, with a chance for parole in ten.

By the time Linderman had finished reading the record, the mosquitoes had returned, and he spent a minute swatting them into oblivion.

He knew that Jason Crutchfield was the person he was looking for. Crutchfield was a sociopath, just as Mr. Clean was a sociopath. The only people sociopaths trusted were each other. They were talking to each other, and he needed to find out why.

He decided to call Bob Kessler, and see what other insights he might have on Crutchfield. He pulled up Kessler’s number from his cell phone’s address book, and heard the call go through. Kessler answered sounding out of breath.

“Hope I’m not getting you at a bad time,” Linderman said.

“Not at all, Ken. I was out on the lawn practicing my golf swing.”

“How’s retirement treating you?”

“It’s great until I run out of golf courses to play.”

“I need to pick your brain for a few minutes.”

“Sure.”

“Tell me about Jason Crutchfield. His name has come up in another case, and I wanted to hear your feelings before I questioned him.”

“You’re going to interview Crutchfield in prison?”

“That was the plan, yes.”

“Jason Crutchfield is the prince of darkness. Take my advice, and tell him as little as possible about yourself when you interview him. Otherwise, you’ll start getting postcards from him, like my family did.”

“He contacted you?”

“Yes. Right after I testified against him at his trial. He somehow got my home address, and my children’s addresses as well. For several years he sent us hand-made cards during the holidays. They were sick.”

“Were you aware he was coming up for parole next year?”

“What? Who told you that?”

“The warden at Starke Prison. He made Crutchfield out to be a model prisoner, and said he was coming up for parole. It sounds like they’re buddies.”

“Did the warden bother to read the report I sent him?”

“I don’t know, Bob — what did it say?”

“It said that Jason Crutchfield was one of the most dangerous serial killers I’ve ever encountered,” Kessler said. “While I was on the witness stand at his trial, Crutchfield kept looking at me and grinning. I’ve seen that look before. It was like a cat that’s just eaten a canary. It told me that he’d committed crimes more heinous than those he was being tried for, and enjoyed that I didn’t know what they were.”

“What did you do?”

“I started digging. Crutchfield was a suspect in his college girlfriend’s slaying ten years earlier, so I used that as my starting point. I contacted the cops in the town where he lived while he was in college, and asked if they’d had any unsolved homicides around that time. Sure enough, they had. The bodies of four naked young women had been found in a remote wooded area, all of them having been raped and murdered. Unfortunately, there was no physical evidence linking them to Crutchfield.

“Right after he graduated from college, Crutchfield took a job in Raleigh, North Carolina programming computers. I contacted the Raleigh police, and sure enough, the bodies of four women were found in the woods during the time he lived there. The condition of the victims’ bodies were identical to those in Pittsburgh.

“Crutchfield lived in three more cities before eventually settling in Melbourne. I contacted the police in every city, and each time, I scored a hit.”

“How many victims did you find?” Linderman asked.

“Twenty-four. There were four in each city, all women. He was a regular killing machine. On top of that, there’s evidence suggesting he might have done away with his family when he was younger.”

“What happened to his family?”

“I don’t know. They just disappeared off the face of the earth.”

“Why wasn’t any of this in his record?”

“Because the bureau won’t let us put things on the record without proof. I sent a report to the warden at Starke, and told him what I’d found. I also offered to speak in front of the parole board when Crutchfield became eligible. It was all I could do.”

“Did the warden ever contact you?”

“Never heard a peep.”

“I need for you to email me a copy of that report.”

“Of course. Not that it’s any of my business, but what is Crutchfield doing? I spent a lot of time studying this guy, and I’d like to know.”

“He’s in contact with a serial killer in Fort Lauderdale who’s abducting violent teenage boys, and murdering them.”

“A tag team?”

“Yes. We’re calling the other killer Mr. Clean. There’s a videotape of him killing the driver of a van and abducting his latest victim that I can send you.”

“I’d like that.”

The front door of the house opened, and Wood stepped out with a concerned look on his face. Linderman had been gone a while, and he waved to his counterpart. Wood returned the wave and went back inside.

“I’ve got to run,” Linderman said. “Thanks for your help. I’ll let you know what I find out.”

“One more question,” Kessler said.

Linderman smiled into the cell. Bob Kessler was famous for asking one more question during investigations, his curiosity insatiable.

“Go ahead.”

“You said Mr. Clean was abducting and killing teenage boys. Crutchfield’s previous victims were all women. What do you think these guys are up to?”

The mosquitoes had returned and were attacking him with abandon. Linderman was sick of the blood on his hands from killing them, and climbed out of the van.

“I don’t know,” he said, “but I’m going to find out.”

Chapter 13

Normally, Linderman would have enjoyed the scenery as he and Wood drove from Jacksonville to Starke Prison, the towering pine trees lining both sides of Highway 301 as beautiful as any he’d ever seen.

But sightseeing was not on today’s agenda. His conversation with Bob Kessler had turned his internal radar up a notch, and with each passing mile, his apprehension grew. Kessler had called Crutchfield the prince of darkness, and told Linderman to be careful. It didn’t matter that Crutchfield was incarcerated in a maximum security prison, or that he passed his days in a nine by twelve cell. Crutchfield was the personification of evil, and as every FBI profiler knew, evil knew no boundaries.

Wood wanted coffee, so they stopped in Starke. The main drag consisted of every fast-food joint you could name and a Baptist church the size of a Wal-Mart. They picked a mom-and-pop, and sat in a secluded booth.

“What do you know about Warden Jenkins?” Linderman asked.

“Jenkins came in on the coattails of a scandal,” Wood replied, blowing steam off his cup. “The last warden got preoccupied running a softball league inside the prison, and was blinded to the fact that the guards were having sex with the female inmates. The place was a regular Sodom and Gomorrah. The local newspaper found out, and blew the lid off of it.”

“How long ago was this?”

“About three years ago.”

“Did Jenkins bring in new people with him?”

“He turned the place upside down. Is that important?”

“Yes. Bob Kessler sent a report to the previous warden telling him that he’d linked twenty-four murders to Jason Crutchfield. I’m guessing that during the transition, Crutchfield used his job in the records department to make that report disappear. I’ll bet you dollars to doughnuts Jenkins never saw it.”

“So Jenkins has no idea who Crutch is.”

“That would be my guess.”

The journey to Starke Prison was one of straight lines. The two-lane highway leading to the prison was as straight as a shotgun blast, as was the walk from the visitor’s parking lot to the main reception area. The final walk to the red brick administration building was also straight, the rough concrete scraping the FBI agents’ shoes.

Jenkins greeted them with the respectful courtesy befitting federal agents. A pear-shaped Southerner with watery eyes and hair combed straight back, his rumpled white shirt hung off his body like a gunny sack; down its center ran a thin necktie.

Jenkins waved at two stiff-backed chairs in front of his desk. Linderman and Wood sat down and declined his offer of a cold drink.

“After our conversation, I figured you’d come, so I took it upon myself to cancel the prisoners’ yard time today,” Jenkins said. “Crutch is in his cell, as are the other inmates in his building. I was watching him on a surveillance camera when you gentlemen came in.”

“You have surveillance cameras in your cells?” Linderman asked.

“No, afraid we can’t afford that.” Jenkins turned the computer on his desk so the screen faced them. “But we do have cameras in the cellblocks which watch the common areas. The cameras lenses can be electronically shifted to stare into cells. It lets us spy on the inmates if needed.”

Linderman stared at the figure on the screen. Crutch sat on a cot with a pair of earphones on his head, his hands gliding through space like an orchestra leader, his fingers plucking each note out of the air without losing tempo. Linderman sometimes engaged in the same ritual when listening to music, and guessed Crutch was listening to Bach or Beethoven, the music beautiful beyond plight and time.

“Do all your inmates have private cells?” Linderman asked.

“No. The majority live in a barracks,” Jenkins replied. “Crutch asked to be put in a private. Claimed that being small put him at a disadvantage with the other inmates.”

“Is his cell regularly checked?” Wood asked.

“We have over fourteen hundred inmates in this facility. We don’t check cells unless the inmate is a problem.”

“So his cell hasn’t been recently checked,” Wood said.

“That is correct,” Jenkins said stiffly.

“Crutch was paying another inmates two hundred dollars a week to use a cell phone,” Linderman said. “How would he get his hands on that kind of money?”

“Someone probably sent it to him through the Inmate Trust Fund,” the warden replied. “Inmates are allowed to have up to five thousand dollars in their accounts.”

“Does anyone check where the money goes?” Wood asked.

“No.” The crossfire of questions was not to Jenkins’ liking, and he said, “If you don’t mind, I’d like to hear what you think Crutch is doing. I realize that talking on a cell phone is against the rules, but the man isn’t a drug dealer, or involved in organized crime. What kind of crimes can he be committing?”

“Jason Crutchfield is a serial killer,” Linderman explained. “He’s communicating to another serial killer who abducted a teenage boy yesterday.”

The blood drained from Jenkins’ face and for a moment he said nothing.

“You’re absolutely positive about this,” the warden muttered.

The two FBI agents nodded stiffly.

“This is just incredible,” Jenkins said. “Just the other day, I saw Crutch in the chapel. He was in the front row, deep in prayer.”

Linderman wanted to ask Jenkins if he’d overheard who Crutch was praying to, but knew the remark would anger him.

“We need to see the records department where Crutch works,” Linderman said. “Once we’re done there, I want to search his cell.”

Jenkins rose from his chair.

“Follow me,” the warden said.

The basement of the administration building was cold and damp and accessed only by stairs. Jenkins unlocked the door to the records department by punching a five-digit code into the lock. The door swung in, and they entered.

The records department was a low-ceilinged room with beige filing cabinets lining the walls, and three stainless steel desks. Except for a large clock on the wall, the room was void of decoration.

Jenkins flipped on the overhead lights. They were florescent, and painful to the eyes. Linderman stared at the Dell computers sitting on each desk.

“Does Crutch have access to these computers?” Linderman asked.

“Yes, he does,” Jenkins said. “The department’s administrator is in the process of transferring all of the prison’s paper files into the prison’s computer’s data base. Crutch is one of our better data processors.”

“How often is he down here?” Linderman asked.

“Five days a week.”

“Did Crutch have Internet access?”

“No, of course not. Inmates are not allowed to use the Internet.”

“So his computer doesn’t have Internet access,” Wood said.

“That’s right. I just told you that.”

“Do any of the other computers have Internet access?” Linderman asked.

“I honestly don’t know,” the warden said.

“So there’s a chance that one of these other computers has Internet access, and Crutch might have gotten on the Internet by using it,” Wood chimed in.

“Perhaps,” Jenkins said, growing red in the face.

“Please turn the computers on so we can check,” Linderman said.

Jenkins powered up each of the computers. It was obvious Jenkins didn’t like to have his authority challenged, only Linderman saw no other choice. The Internet was a dangerous weapon in the wrong hands. In Nevada, a twisted killer incarcerated in Ely State Prison had managed to track the singer Madonna’s whereabouts by using Google and some old-fashioned ingenuity, and had made her life a living hell until the authorities had figured out what he was up to.

Linderman and Wood watched the computers come to life. One computer had a different screen than the other three, and required a password to enter.

“Whose computer is this?” Linderman asked.

“That belongs to Alvin Hodges, the records department administrator,” Jenkins explained. “He’s off today. His wife is expecting their first child.”

“Do you know the password?” Linderman asked.

“I’m afraid only Alvin does.”

“I need you to call him and get it.”

“But why is that computer important?” Jenkins asked, growing frustrated. “Crutch doesn’t use it. His computer is on the other side of the room.”

“Look at how the desks are situated,” Linderman said. “Crutch can sit at his desk, and spy on Hodges while he’s working on his computer. Crutch may have seen Hodges type in his password. He might be getting on Hodges’ computer when he’s not here, and going onto the Internet.”

“Crutch is only allowed in the records room when Hodges is here,” the warden said. “He can’t get on Hodges’ computer, even if he wanted to.”

“What if Hodges goes to the bathroom, or leaves for a break?” Linderman asked. “That would give Crutch time. I need to get on this computer.”

The warden shook his head and muttered “Very well,” under his breath. He spent the next few minutes tracking down Hodges on the phone, and getting the password from him. Hanging up, he said, “The password is Colette. It was Hodges’ mother’s name.”

“Did his wife have her baby?” Linderman asked.

“Yes. A six pound little boy. They’re both doing fine.”

“Glad to hear it.”

Linderman sat at Hodges’ computer and entered the password into the box on the screen. A screen saver appeared filled with program icons. One was for Windows Internet Explorer. He clicked the mouse over it, and was taken to CNN.com. By clicking the mouse on the down arrow next to the web site’s domain name, a list of web sites recently visited on the computer appeared. The names for two sites appeared. The investment firm of Charles Schwab, and a Jacksonville-based bicycling club.

“Does Hodges like to ride bikes?” Linderman asked.

“It’s his passion,” the warden said.

“I think these two sites are ones he’s visiting,” Linderman said.

“So Crutch isn’t using Hodges’ computer,” the warden said.

“I didn’t say that. Crutch may be using the computer to access the Internet, and then erasing the places where he visits from. It’s not that difficult.”

“Click on Favorites,” Wood suggested. “Maybe Crutch is storing things in there without Hodges knowing.”

Linderman clicked on the Favorite tab. Hodges should have routinely checked his computer to make sure no inmates were using it. Only Crutch had convinced Hodges that he was trustworthy, and Hodges had probably never bothered.

A dozen domain names appeared on the screen. Linderman began to individually check each site. The first five were hardcore pornography, and included bondage and S&M. They were followed by sites called orgish, and rotten.com, which featured videos of death and human disaster, with an emphasis on body parts.

“God Almighty,” Jenkins said under his breath.

The next two sites were fan sites devoted to serial killers. Then came the law enforcement web sites, including the Broward Sheriff’s Department, the Miami-Dade County Police Department, the Florida Department of Law Enforcement, and the Florida branch of the National Center for Missing and Exploited Children. These were followed by a site devoted to exposing the torture techniques used on terrorists at Guantanamo Bay.

It all spelled Crutch. Each site was another portal into his sick psyche. But it was the last site that made Linderman sit up straight in his chair.

“Christ Almighty,” Linderman said under his breath.

The last site was the FBI’s criminal data base, the very same site he’d visited that morning. The fact that it took a password to gain access didn’t matter. Crutch was a computer expert, and had probably already hacked it.

“We’ll need for a forensics tech to take this computer apart, and see what other gems we can find,” Linderman said.

“I’ll call over to my office, and get one of our agents on it,” Wood said.

Linderman glanced at Jenkins. The warden’s color had not improved, and he looked like he might get sick.

“I want to see his cell,” Linderman said.

Chapter 14

Linderman explained to Jenkins how he wanted the search done. He did not want Crutch to know that the FBI was looking at his things. Better for him to think that the search was part of something larger taking place inside the prison.

“We can do a weapons search inside his cellblock,” the warden suggested. “Those are not uncommon, and every cell gets checked.”

“Do you ever take things from the cells during these checks?”

“Sometimes.”

“So Crutch won’t be suspicious if we took something from his cell.”

“No, but I’d suggest you also take items from other inmates’ cells,” the warden said. “You know how these guys talk.”

“Where will Crutch be during the search?”

“We’ll put him and the other inmates from his building into the cafeteria.”

“I don’t want Crutch or any other inmate to see us.”

“I can arrange that.”

“Good. Let’s get it started.”

Linderman and Wood went to the parking lot and retrieved a Canon camera with a zoom lens from the equipment locker in the trunk of Woods’ car. When they returned to Jenkins’ office, the warden had already started the process of moving the inmates from Crutch’s building to the cafeteria on the other side of the prison.

Linderman went to the window and parted the blinds with his finger. A few hundred yards away, a line of inmates were walking down a wide concrete walkway. He tried to find Jason Crutchfield in the line.

“Give me your camera,” he said to Wood.

Wood passed him the camera. Linderman extended the zoom and had another look. He found Crutch near the back of the line. Their suspect was small in stature, with thinning, neatly parted hair. He wore wide-rimmed glasses which sat perched on the end of his nose like a librarian’s. His orange jumpsuit was spotless, and without creases. He looked about as threatening as an accountant.

Lowering the camera, Linderman glanced at the warden. Jenkins had come in on the coattails of a scandal, and was about to become part of another.

“Ready when you are,” Linderman said.

The three men crossed the prison grounds in one hundred degree heat. There was no breeze, the air dead and still. The prison had no tall buildings that offered an escape into the cool shade. Soon they were dripping sweat.

Two uniformed guards met them at the front door to Crutch’s building.

“Take us to Crutch’s cell,” Jenkins told them.

The guards walked them down a short hallway to an electronically operated door, which had been left open. The door led to a large cellblock.

“Which cell is Crutch’s?” Jenkins asked.

“Last cell on the left,” one of the guards replied.

“Is it open?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Stay here. Both of you,” Jenkins said.

The guards took their positions outside the cellblock. Linderman entered first. The odor inside the cellblock hit him hard. Shit, piss, desperation, and fear, a combination of odors that no room deodorizer could erase.

“God, is that foul,” Wood said.

Crutch’s cell was at the end of the block. Linderman wondered if corner cells in prison were the same status symbols as corner offices in the outside world. He stopped at the cell door. Small and tidy, the cell contained cardboard shelving units lined with paperback books, music CDs, and an assortment of knick-knacks, including packs of gum, a deck of playing cards, and a stack of index cards wrapped with a rubber band. He removed a pair of rubber gloves from his pocket and fitted them on.

“I’ll search, you shoot,” Linderman said.

“Got it,” Wood replied.

Linderman started by taking the sheets off the bed, and checking the mattress and box spring for hidden pockets. They were both clean, and he remade the bed so it looked just like before. Then, he took the index cards off the shelf, removed the rubber band, and dealt them individually onto the bed. Each card was covered in a tiny scribble of writing. He stood back, and let Wood photograph each card, making sure that his counterpart shot them in the same order they’d occupied in the stack.

Next were the paperbacks. Linderman leafed through them to be sure they didn’t contain hollowed out compartments, then laid them out to be photographed. Their subjects ranged from true crime books by Ann Rule, to criminal psychology, to a short story collection by Stephen King entitled Different Seasons. One of the stories, Apt Pupil, had been underlined in several different places.

Then came the CDs. His earlier hunch had been correct: Crutch favored classical music. His shelves were filled with piano works by Bach and Beethoven, sprinkled with early Herbie Hancock. Linderman opened each CD pocket to check on its contents. Satisfied, he laid them on the bed to be photographed.

The last items were the knick-knacks. A tin can filled with buttons, some yarn, a book of stamps, several unused envelopes, and the playing cards. They were not the type of items that typically held clues, but he laid them out anyway.

“What are those?” Wood asked, pointing at the cards.

“Playing cards,” Linderman replied.

“They look like a pack of cigarettes. Take them out of the box. I don’t want to be confused later when I look at the photos.”

Linderman took the cards out of the box and fanned them on the bed. They were dog-eared and worn. Their back design showed a drawing of the state of Florida with a gold shield superimposed over the state. Printed in bold letters inside the shield were the words Florida Association of Crime Stoppers. Below that, a quote from Voltaire:

“To the living we owe respect; to the dead we owe the truth.”

The truth. Sometimes it was hard to find the truth. Linderman had seen these cards before. Printed on their faces were photographs of fifty-two people who’d been murdered or had gone missing in Florida. Each card contained a brief bio of the victim, along with a toll-free phone number to call. The cards were distributed to Florida’s prison population in the hope they might lead to tips or information in cracking the cases. He knew about the cards because Danni’s case was featured on one. Danni’s card was the Queen of Diamonds, which she would have liked. Beneath her photograph were the words 18 Year Old White Female followed by a sixty-five word description of how she’d disappeared while jogging at the University of Miami.

“All done,” Wood said.

Linderman scooped up the cards and found himself staring at the dead and missing. In the margins of each card Crutch had written cryptic notes in pencil, sometimes several sentences long. The printing was tiny and needed magnification.

“Find something?” Jenkins asked, standing outside the cell.

“There’s writing on these playing cards,” Linderman explained. “I want to keep them, if that’s all right.”

“Take whatever you want. Just make sure you take things from the other cells as well.”

Linderman slipped the deck into his pocket. He supposed he should have leveled with Jenkins, and told him about Danni’s card being in the deck, and how he wanted to see what Crutch had written in the margins. But he decided against it. He’d stopped believing that anyone truly cared about what had happened to his daughter except he, his wife, and a handful of his friends. So he rarely talked about it, and never with strangers.

Linderman grabbed a handful of items from other cells. Wood met him in the center of the cellblock when he was finished.

“All done?” Linderman asked.

“All done,” Wood said.

Chapter 15

“Having a little cougar-time?” a voice asked.

Vick turned away from her computer. DuCharme stood in the doorway to her temporary office at police headquarters, holding two cups of coffee and a bag of pastries, his body reeking of cheap aftershave.

“Excuse me?” she replied.

DuCharme bit his lower lip. As opening lines went, it was a real stinker.

“You’ve never heard of cougar-time?” the detective asked.

“Afraid not.”

“It’s a popular expression with the kids.”

“That’s nice.”

She went back to her computer. The police department’s server had been down, and her web site had just gone live. She was monitoring the postings on the site’s blog, hoping Mr. Clean took the bait. There was technology which would have enabled her to read the site’s blog on her BlackBerry, only no one in the building knew how to use it.

“Those coffees must be hot,” she said.

“You bet they’re hot. They’re burning my fingers.”

“Put them on the desk and have a seat.”

DuCharme put the food on the desk. He grabbed a chair and sat so their legs were nearly touching. Shredding the bag, he removed two huge Danish pastries dripping with sweet cheese, and offered Vick one.

“No thanks,” Vick said.

“Aw, come on. They’re really good.”

“I was raised never to eat anything bigger than my head.”

“You sure?”

“Yes, Roger, I’m sure.”

DuCharme inhaled the first Danish as if it were his last meal, gulped down his coffee, then attacked the second with the same gusto. The crescendo was a deep belch which he smothered with his fist.

“You’ve piqued my curiosity,” she said. “What’s cougar-time?”

“It’s when older women pursue younger men,” DuCharme said, licking the sugar off his fingers.

“And why would that pertain to me?”

He pointed at the photographs of Mr. Clean’s three victims lying on the desk. “Those are three good-looking boys,” he said.

“Those are our victims. In case you hadn’t noticed, Mr. Clean is picking good-looking teenage boys to kidnap and kill. I was studying them.”

“I thought Mr. Clean was picking them because they were punks.”

“Punks?”

“Yeah. You know, trash.”

“Why do you call them that? Because they’ve killed?”

“Damn straight.”

“They’re still victims.”

“Society’s better off with them gone, you ask me.”

No one asked you, Vick nearly said. She stifled the urge to blow him off, and tried a more tactful approach. “Society treats young people who kill differently than adults. Young people, especially teenage boys, often act impulsively, and don’t fully comprehend the consequences of what they’re doing.”

“What … we should let them skate?”

“No, just give them another chance.”

“Why do that?”

“So they can be rehabilitated.”

DuCharme pointed at Wayne Ladd’s photo. “That boy stuck a bayonet through his mother’s boyfriend’s heart. He got right in his victim’s face, and looked him in the eye when he killed him. There’s no changing punks like that.”

Vick wanted the conversation to end. A new posting had appeared on the web site’s blog. Reading it, the skin on her scalp turned warm and prickly.

The police are never going to catch this guy because the police don’t know what they’re doing. They’re fucking assholes. They look at things, and only see what they want to see. How can people that fucking stupid expect to solve a crime. Answer: THEY CAN’T!

Someone with real anger toward the police had written this. The claim that the police would never catch the killer was also troubling. Vick typed a command into her computer that allowed her to access the filter on the site. The author’s IP address appeared on her screen, along with the physical address of the author’s computer. The posting had been made from a computer terminal at the Broward County main library.

Vick phoned the library and spoke to the sheriff’s deputy in charge of security. She asked the deputy how many cops were on duty.

“I’ve got five officers in the building,” the deputy said.

“Get them together, and go to where the computer terminals are located,” Vick said. “Have your officers hold whoever’s sitting at those computers. Our suspect is a large Cuban male between thirty-five and fifty years of age. He’s armed and extremely dangerous. I’ll be right there.”

“Yes, ma’am,” the deputy said.

Vick hung up and grabbed her purse off the back of her chair. She was halfway out the door when she spotted DuCharme frantically punching a number into his cell phone. She paid it no heed, and hurried down the hallway toward the elevators.

The Broward County library was an imposing six-story structure on the corner of Andrews Avenue and SW 6th Street in downtown Fort Lauderdale. A covered walkway protruding from the building’s second floor led to an elevated parking garage across the street, which also serviced the nearby courthouse. Vick had planned to park in the garage and use the walkway, only there was a problem. The front of the library was jammed with police cars, both marked and unmarked. Unable to maneuver around them, she put her FBI decal on the dash, and parked in a bus zone. She turned to DuCharme, who sat in the passenger seat.

“Is this your doing?” she asked angrily.

“Sorry. I wasn’t thinking,” the detective said.

“What if Mr. Clean was listening to the police patrol car conversations on a scanner, and heard your distress call go out? You didn’t say our suspect was a serial killer, did you?”

“I may have…”

“You idiot.”

Vick jumped out of the car and slammed the door. She ran up the steps while pinning her FBI badge to her jacket lapel. The library’s head of security greeted her at the front door. His name was Deputy Murphy, and he had snow white hair and the weary gloss of an older cop. She waited until they were inside an elevator before speaking.

“Tell me what you’ve got,” Vick said.

“We detained four people who were on the library computers using the Internet,” Murphy said. “I spoke to the librarian who monitors the computer area, and she said they were the only patrons on the computers at the time you called.”

“Describe them.”

“Suspect number one is a retired postman in his late-seventies. Number two is an overweight white male in his late teens. Number three, an expectant housewife. Number four, a smart-mouthed teenage girl.”

None of them matched Mr. Clean’s profile. Yet one of them had written the angry post on the web site. Vick needed to find out why. The door parted with a hiss and they got out on the sixth floor.

“Is the teenage girl giving you a lot of crap?” Vick asked.

“She won’t shut up.”

“Cursing?”

“Quite a bit. It took me by surprise. She’s clearly upset about something.”

“That’s the one I’m looking for. Let’s put her in a room by herself. I’m going to grill her.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

DuCharme appeared as Vick was preparing to question suspect number four. He was out of breath, and had been searching the building for her. He tried to apologize, and Vick cut him off at the knees.

“You get in trouble every time you open your mouth,” Vick said.

“Look, I’m really…”

“Shut up.”

He nodded compliance. Vick grabbed the doorknob and twisted it. The room was windowless, with a round conference table and eight chairs. Plastered on the walls were posters of Dr. Seuss characters promoting National Reading month. A sullen teenage girl sat in a chair at the end of the table. Deputy Murphy stood behind her, his arms crossed.

Vick cleared her throat as she entered the conference room. She heard DuCharme shut the door behind her. That made him good for something.

“Hello,” Vick said. “My name is Special Agent Vick, and I’m with the FBI.”

The girl’s mouth dropped open and panic lit up her eyes. She was the complete package. Luscious face, full bosom, hypnotic eyes, small waist. The kind of girl that boys dreamed about late at night, and fought over in schoolyards. Her clothes were suggestive, and showed cleavage and plenty of well-tanned skin.

“What’s your name?” Vick asked.

“I haven’t done anything wrong,” the girl shot back.

Vick came around the desk so fast that the girl pulled back in her chair.

“Answer the question,” Vick said.

“But I haven’t,” the girl said defensively.

“Not cooperating with an FBI agent is a crime, young lady. How would you like to go down to police headquarters with me?”

The girl’s eyes welled with tears, and she shook her head.

“You went onto a police website this morning, and posted some unpleasant things on a blog,” Vick said. “I want to know why. Let’s start by you telling me your name.”

“Amber Spears.”

“How old are you?”

“Sixteen.”

“Do you have any ID?”

“No.”

Vick removed a pen and notepad from her purse and placed them on the table. “I want you to write down your name, your address, your home phone number, and both your parents names. While we’re talking, I’m going to have my partner check you out. If I find you’re lying to me, I’ll run you in.”

Amber wrote down her personal information on the notepad. Vick tore off the sheet and crossed the room to where DuCharme slouched against the wall.

“Make yourself useful, and check this out,” Vick said under her breath.

DuCharme left. Vick grabbed a chair and sat facing Amber. The girl’s nostrils were flared, her breathing accelerated. Vick touched her wrist, and Amber lifted her eyes from the floor. Their gazes locked.

“Why did you post that blog? Do you know something about the case?”

“Wayne Ladd’s my boyfriend,” Amber said. “I didn’t like the things the police said about him on their web site. They made Wayne out to be a monster. He never hurt anybody in his life.”

“Wayne Ladd killed his mother’s boyfriend.”

“No, he didn’t.”

“Did Wayne tell you that?”

Amber let out a sniffle and nodded. She was wearing cheap mascara, and her tears were giving her racoon eyes. Vick took a Kleenex from her purse and gave it to her. Had Amber not been in love, Vick would have told her about the police report that said Wayne had been covered in her mother’s boyfriend’s blood when the police had arrived at the scene, the bayonet still clutched in his hand. Or about the confession he’d made with a lawyer present. Vick would have told her those things, only love blinded people to the truth, and let them see only the things they wished to see.

The door to the conference room opened, and DuCharme stuck his head in.

“She checks out,” he said.

Vick rose from her chair. She’d just raced across town to confront a pissed-off teenager. It angered her as much as DuCharme’s blasting it over the airwaves. She started to leave, and Amber touched her sleeve.

“Wayne didn’t do it,” Amber said.

Vick had had enough of Amber’s denials.

“Then why did he confess?” Vick asked.

“He was protecting her.”

“Who?”

“His mother.”

“You’re saying that Wayne confessed to protect his mother.”

“Yes.”

“Is that what he told you?”

“Yes. I know it’s true.”

“How do you know it’s true?”

“Because Wayne wouldn’t hurt anyone. He’s gentle and kind and likes to write songs on the guitar. He’s the sweetest boy in my school. That’s why I love him.”

Vick had read Wayne Ladd’s file. It had been clean except for the boyfriend’s killing. That had bothered her. Boys who killed were usually out of control.

“He’s not a monster,” Amber whispered.

The tears had dried on Amber’s cheeks. In her beautiful eyes was a look of a much older person, of someone with wisdom beyond her years. It took Vick by surprise, then the slow realization of the situation took hold.

Amber was telling the truth.

Chapter 16

Binoculars in hand, Renaldo stood on the roof of the elevated parking garage across from the library. Six cruisers and two unmarked Crown Vic sedans were parked by the entrance, the officers standing on the sidewalk with their chests puffed out.

He knew why the police were here. He’d heard the distress call over his scanner. A serial killer named Mr. Clean was inside the library, and every cruiser in the area had been instructed to go there.

He’d never heard of Mr. Clean. Was there another serial killer in Fort Lauderdale that he didn’t know about? Curious, he’d decided to find out.

Going to the computer in his study, he’d typed Mr. Clean into the Yahoo search engine. Yahoo had taken him to the web site of a company that sold household cleaning products. Mr. Clean was the company mascot, a muscle-bound cartoon character dressed in white. The cartoon looked like a cross between a black man and a Latino, or what some called a mulatto.

Then it had hit him. He was Mr. Clean.

It had scared him. Someone must have seen him abduct Wayne Ladd. The police had done up a profile, and given him a cute nickname. Now, they were hunting for him. This was bad.

Then, he’d had a strange thought. If he was Mr. Clean, who was the person inside the library? He’d decided he’d better find out.

As he’d started to leave his house, he’d realized that Wayne needed to be fed. As part of the Program, he cooked three delicious meals a day for Wayne, and fed him tasty snacks whenever the boy was hungry. Wayne needed to be happy, and keeping his stomach full was a good way to do that. He’d prepared a thick roast beef sandwich, which he’d taken to Wayne’s room. He’d untied Wayne, and watched him wolf down the food.

“I have to go out for a little while,” Renaldo had said. “I will make you a wonderful dinner when I return.”

“Are you going to leave me tied to the chair?” Wayne had asked.

Renaldo had nodded solemnly.

“What about the movies? Can’t you show me something else?”

The TV was showing a gang rape to the accompaniment of Pink Floyd’s The Wall.

“What would you like to see?”

“I don’t know — something normal for a change.”

Renaldo did not know what normal was. He’d tied Wayne back to the chair and left the house.

A movement in front of the library caught his eye. Three people were coming down the front steps, the police letting them pass. Renaldo studied them through his binoculars, one at a time.

The first person was a soft-looking white man wearing a cheap brown suit. Pinned to his lapel was a policeman’s badge.

The second was a cute little blond wearing a dark pants suit. She appeared to be in charge. Another cop, he guessed.

The third was a sexy teenage girl.

The cute blond escorted the teenage girl to a police cruiser. The blond spoke a few words, and the teenager nodded solemnly. The teenager wasn’t wearing handcuffs, and didn’t appear to be in trouble.

Moments later, the cruiser drove away with the teenage girl.

Renaldo focused on the cute little blond. She got behind the wheel of a blue Audi that was parked illegally in a bus zone. A decal on the dash said FBI.

This was really bad.

He did not want to mess with the FBI. They were smarter than the police, and never quit. The FBI would put him back in a mental hospital, or in prison. They were the enemy.

He decided to leave.

“Hey — don’t I know you?” a raspy voice asked.

Renaldo shivered in the brutal summer heat. No one knew him. He did not have a single friend in the entire world. He turned to find an aging black man standing behind him. The old man’s clothes were odd — dark dress pants, a navy button-down shirt, white necktie, red suspenders, and a porkpie hat titled rakishly to one side. Hanging around his neck was a laminated badge with a blurry photograph.

“I don’t think so,” Renaldo said.

“I’ve seen you around town. You drive around at night, picking up hookers.”

He knows, Renaldo thought.

“We talked once. About three months ago, thereabouts,” the old man went on. “You were scouting for tail down by the bridge. I was there, and we struck up a conversation. You asked me about my clothes.”

Renaldo dug deep in his memory. The old man was a professional panhandler. His gimmick was to approach tourists on the street, and gave them a spiel about being in town for a Shriner’s convention, and losing his wallet. That was the reason behind the odd clothes and ID tag.

“I’m afraid you’ve mistaken me for someone else.” Renaldo bowed his head and attempted to walk around him.

“Why were you spying on the police?” the old man asked.

“Excuse me?”

“I’ve been watching you the whole time. Saw you pull into the garage, and followed you up here.”

Renaldo’s inner alarm went off. His first thought was to kill the old man, and throw him in the trunk of his car. He could dismember him in the bathtub at the house, and feed him to his neighbor’s dogs. They stayed out at night, and were always hungry.

He glanced over his shoulder. The police cars had vacated the library. It was doable. If he got a hand around the old man’s throat, no one would hear a thing.

He reined in the murderous impulse. He needed to be like the shark, and not draw attention to himself. Removing his wallet, he pulled out a crisp twenty dollar bill, and shoved it into the old man’s hands.

“What’s that for?” The old man sounded indignant.

“It’s what you want, isn’t it?”

“That’s not enough to shut me up.”

Renaldo opened his billfold. He had eighty dollars.

“Take all of it,” Renaldo said.

“I want more.”

“That’s all I have.”

“You’ll pay, when you hear what I have to say.”

There was an expression for what the old man was trying to pull. It was called a shakedown. Renaldo closed his wallet and headed to his car on the other side of the roof, near the ramp. The old man fell in step behind him. Renaldo noted how he was keeping his distance, staying a few yards back. He knows everything.

“I’ve been watching you a long time,” the old man said. “You’re a bad one, you are. Trolling the streets at night, picking up hookers. You take them home and kill them, then dispose of their bodies. Tell me I’m right.”

Renaldo kept his eyes peeled to the ground and kept walking.

“You wear a uniform sometimes. What are you, a deliveryman?”

Renaldo kept walking.

“Or a fireman?”

Renaldo pulled his keys out of his pocket.

“I knew some of those girls,” the old man went on. “I kept telling the police they were disappearing, but they didn’t listen.”

Renaldo jammed his key into the driver’s door and opened his car. The heat bubble inside the vehicle swept over his body, and he staggered back.

“How many have you killed? Ten? Twenty? Thirty? I bet you don’t even know the number. Poor girls disappear, nobody gives a rat’s ass.”

Renaldo leaned against the car and tried to catch his breath. As strange as it sounded, he’d been raised Catholic, and believed in heaven and hell. He knew that someday he’d end up in burning in hell for all the killing he’d done. He wondered if this was a preview of eternal damnation.

“I have a bank account. I’ll give you what’s in it,” he managed to say.

“Now you’re talking, son. Give me the address, and I’ll meet you there.”

Renaldo told him the bank’s location. The old man headed for the stairwell. He had a spring to his step, and was already counting the money.

Renaldo watched him leave. The old man was a con man. He would come back in a few weeks, and shake him down again. Then he’d do it again. It was how these things played out. He would turn Renaldo’s life into a nightmare.

My life will be hell before I die, he thought.

A jetliner appeared in the cloudless sky. On an approach pattern for the airport, its engines drowned out all sound. It was the opportunity he’d been waiting for, and Renaldo drew his knife. The old man glanced over his shoulder as the shark descended upon him. “Please,” he begged.

He dragged the old man into a stairwell and slit his throat, the blood flowing down the stairs. Then he got a small saw he kept in his trunk for situations like this. He went to work on the old man, and cut him up. The pieces he wanted to keep, he wrapped in plastic, and put in his car. The rest he dragged to the other side of the parking garage, and propped up against the wall, using the old man’s porkpie hat to hide his missing head.

Renaldo appraised his handiwork. The old man looked like he was taking a siesta. The police would freak when they took the hat away, which was exactly what he wanted.

He decided to put a cherry atop his cake. From his car, he found a slip of paper and a ballpoint pen. On the slip he wrote the words Mr. Clean. He folded the slip into a neat square, and stuck the slip in the rim of the old man’s hat.

He drove to a 7/11 and locked himself in the restroom. He washed the blood off his hands and splashed cold water on his face. He felt tired. Taking another life no longer brought the same thrill it once did. It was more a matter of habit now. Like eating and sleeping and going to work.

He appraised his reflection in the mirror. His hair was flecked with gray, and his eyes, so pretty when he was young, had turned listless and old.

He bought a sixteen-ounce coffee, which he drank in his car. He thought about Wayne. The teenager was seventeen, the same age he’d been when he’d started killing prostitutes in Havana. Wayne’s whole life was spread out before him. It excited Renaldo to think about all the things Wayne might accomplish, if given the right start.

He drove back to the house, determined to give Wayne that chance.

Chapter 17

Nothing died on a computer.

Deep within every hard drive were trails of a computer’s activity. People who sent and received emails were especially vulnerable. Traces of emails remained on a computer long after the actual messages were erased. Few people knew how to clean away these traces, and hardly anyone ever did.

Then there was data. Every single document that was created by, or stored on a computer left a history, even if the document was erased from the file it had been created in, and from the computer’s recycle bin. That data was also there, waiting to be found.

Finally, there was metadata. Every document on a computer was loaded with hidden data. Who created the document, where it had been sent, all the changes and alterations that have been made to it, were all recorded like a giant footprint.

All of the information was there, and all of it could be found.

“So find it,” Linderman said.

The tech out of FBI’s Jacksonville office grinned. His name was Chip Williams, and he was old school, with a starched white shirt, a thin, perfectly knotted necktie, and a military-style buzz cut. Williams sat in front of Alvin Hodges’s computer in the prison’s records department, looking for traces of Crutch’s activity on the hard drive.

“This could take a while,” Williams said.

“Take as long as you want,” Linderman replied. “Our suspect isn’t going anywhere.”

Williams began by downloading a special software program into the computer. Then his fingers danced across the keyboard like a concert pianist. Within seconds, hundreds of domain names scrolled down the screen like movie credits.

“Looks like your suspect has been spending a lot of time surfing the Internet,” Williams said. “A lot of these domain names are law enforcement web sites. He would have needed a password to enter most of them.”

“He’s a computer expert. He could have hacked them.”

“Any idea what he was looking for?”

“No. Could he have been downloading information from these sites, and storing it in some secret area of the hard drive?”

“That’s not so easy, even for an expert.”

“He used to do work for NASA.”

“Well, then sure. No problem.”

“Search the hard drive as thoroughly as you can. I’m going upstairs to the warden’s office. Call me if you find anything interesting.”

“Will do,” Williams said.

Leaving the records department, Linderman leaned against the cool concrete wall in the hallway outside. He tried not to think about the deck of cold case playing cards in his pocket, or the scribbling he’d seen on Danni’s card. He reminded himself that he’d come to Starke Prison to find the man who’d abducted Wayne Ladd. That was his first priority. Everything else had to wait.

Only he couldn’t wait.

This was Danni.

In college he’d studied philosophy. One discussion had always stood out. A father takes his young daughter and her best friend to the beach. The two girls go swimming, and are pulled out by the tide. The father can only save one child from drowning. Which one does he save?

The answer was his daughter. The father could always forgive himself for letting another child drown, but he could never forgive himself for letting his daughter perish.

He took the deck out of his pocket and slipped the cards from the box. Finding Danni’s card, he held it up to the dim overhead light. Writing filled the margins, the letters so faint that he couldn’t make out what they said.

“Damn it,” he said.

He put the cards away. Scrutinizing Danni’s card would have to wait.

He took the stairs to the warden’s office.

He entered without knocking. Jenkins sat at his desk while Wood hovered beside him, both staring at Jenkin’s computer. Neither man lifted their gaze.

“Find something good?” Linderman asked.

“I’m not sure what we’ve found,” Wood said.

He came around the desk. On the screen was one of the index cards from Crutch’s cell. The handwriting had been blown up and was clearly legible. It was a psychological profile of Mr. Hyde, a serial killer who’d terrorized Seattle for over a decade.

Linderman had profiled Mr. Hyde at Quantico, and knew a great deal about him. Mr. Hyde was a pansexual, and would have sex with any object, man, woman or child. Crutch’s profile contained information he’d never seen before, including intimate details about Mr. Hyde’s abusive childhood, his early sexual experiences, an addiction to pornography and S&M, and the types of violent fantasies that plagued him. Several sentences were underlined, including Lived in attic as a boy and Does not know meaning of love.

“What did you find on the other index cards?” Linderman asked.

“There are fifteen index cards in all,” Wood said. “Each contains a detailed profile of a serial killer in the United States who’s still at large. There’s the Gray Man, the Denver Ripper, the Necktie Killer in Boston, and a dozen more.”

“How about Killer X in Fort Lauderdale?” Linderman asked.

“Here’s there, too.”

“Let me see the card.”

The index card containing Killer X’s profile appeared on Jenkin’s computer. It was as detailed as Mr. Hyde’s, and included facts about Killer X’s upbringing that had eluded law enforcement, including an addiction to bodybuilding and certain men’s grooming products. A line at the bottom of the card caught his eye.

Can’t get enough of his victims. Just like SOS. Should be easy to find.

“Jesus Christ,” Wood said. “He was trying to track these guys down, wasn’t he?”

“Yes, and he succeeded with Killer X,” Linderman said. “Let me ask you a question. Did you find any mention on the cards of Wayne Ladd?

“No,” Wood said.

“How about Robert Nardelli or Barry Reedy? They were the first two victims.”

“Nothing about them, either,” Wood said. “So far, we haven’t found any evidence linking Crutch to those crimes.”

Linderman went to the window and looked down onto the yard. He had traveled to the prison fully expecting to find evidence that would link Crutch to Mr. Clean, and his crimes. Without that proof, he couldn’t move the investigation forward.

In the distance, he saw the inmates returning to their cellblock. Crutch was in the same position in the rear of the line, chatting amicably with the guard. He still doesn’t know we’re here. It gave Linderman an idea, and he went back to the desk.

“I want to give Crutch a cell phone tonight,” he said.

“Why — so he can call this killer again?” Jenkins said.

“Yes. Crutch doesn’t know we’re on to him. That’s to our advantage. We’ll give him a slave phone, and monitor his calls.”

“A slave phone?”

“They’re cell phones equipped with special monitoring chips that are tracked using satellites,” Linderman explained. “It will tell us the phone number of anyone Crutch talks to, and let us eavesdrop on his conversations.”

“But how will you get the phone to him?” Jenkins asked. “You arrested Drake.”

“We’ll cut a deal with Drake, and get him to help us.”

“I’m not partial to giving out passes,” Jenkins said matter-of-factly. “Drake compromised the prison’s security. The son-of-a-bitch deserves to do time.”

“What’s he looking at — a couple of years in prison?” Linderman argued. “With a decent lawyer, he might end up doing a hundred and eighty days in county. He’s our link to Crutch. We need him on our side.”

Jenkins scratched his chin in thought. Linderman looked at Wood, and saw the director of the Jacksonville office dip his chin in agreement.

“What the hell,” Jenkins said. “Let’s do it.”

Wood called the jail in Jacksonville and spoke to the deputy in charge of booking new prisoners. He cupped his hand over the phone. “Drake’s lawyer showed up a half hour ago. They’re getting his name and number for me.”

“Good,” Linderman said.

Wood returned to his call. Linderman pulled Jenkins to the other side of the room, and dropped his voice. “I don’t want Crutch knowing we’ve been here. Can you keep him locked up without arousing any suspicions?”

“Sure,” Jenkins said. “I’ll keep everyone in his cellblock confined.”

“Perfect.”

Jenkins got on his phone, and made arrangements for the inmates in Crutch’s cellblock to remain in their cells for the rest of the day. Linderman felt his spirts rise. The investigation was moving ahead. Now it was a matter of putting a slave phone into Crutch’s hands, and waiting for him to make contact with Mr. Clean.

He excused himself, and left the room.

The bathroom was at the hallway’s end. Locking himself inside, he removed Danni’s card from the deck of cold case playing cards, and held it up to the harsh light above the sink. The tiny words written in the margin jumped to life.

One of Skell’s

He felt himself shudder. Simon Skell was a notorious serial killer who’d preyed on young women in South Florida before being killed in a manhunt. Linderman had long suspected Skell in his daughter’s abduction, only had never been able to make a link.

One of Skell’s

He fanned through the rest of the deck. There was writing in the margins of the other cards, which he held up to the light and read. On each unsolved case, Crutch had written the name of a killer. Like someone playing a game, Crutch had matched the killers to their crimes.

Next to many of the unsolved cases were questions marks. Linderman guessed these were cases where Crutch wasn’t sure, and had to guess.

He flipped back to Danni’s card. There was no question mark next to Skell’s name. It was a statement of fact.

One of Skell’s

He shuddered again.

Crutch knew what had happened to Danni.

Chapter 18

Crutch stiffened as the cell door closed behind him. A strange smell scented the air. Expensive aftershave, or perhaps cologne. Not something any of the bovine guards would wear. He’d had a visitor.

His eyes scanned the cell. Things had been touched, the bed remade. He went to the shelves and inventoried his personal items. His deck of cold case playing cards were missing. He stomped his feet and clenched his fists in anger. Those cards were special. He’d been able to match most of the crimes in the deck to specific killers, and make good guesses on the others. It had been fun, and helped pass the time.

The voice inside his head screamed.

He went to the cell door. Across the block, a three-hundred pound black inmate named Leon shot him the hundred yard stare. It was a look meant to inspire fear.

“Yo, peckerwood. Guards take anything from your cell?”

“They took my playing cards,” Crutch said.

“They took my tooth brush. How am I gonna brush my fucking teeth?”

“I’ve got a spare.”

“Give it to me.”

Leon was a bad ass, and treated Crutch like dirt. Leon believed the extent of Crutch’s crimes were a single charge of kidnaping and rape. In Leon’s eyes, that made Crutch a nothing, or what the black inmates called a peckerwood.

Crutch did not have a problem with that. He had not told Leon about the crimes he’d committed. Nor had he told any of the other inmates. Most of the inmates liked to brag about the bad things they’d done. Crutch had done the opposite.

Crutch had researched hundreds of serial killers during his time in Starke. He knew more about serial killers than anyone alive. When it came to being incarcerated, being a serial killer was no badge of honor. At best, the other inmates shunned you. At worst, they killed you.

Crutch tossed the spare toothbrush to Leon.

“Think they’re gonna let us exercise in the yard?” Leon asked. “I hate being cooped up in here.”

“Beats me,” Crutch said.

Leon put on his headphones. Soon he was riding a wave of rap music. Crutch cupped his hands over his mouth and called down the hall. A steel door slid back, and a pimply-faced guard named Mickey stuck his head in.

“What do you want?” Mickey asked.

“I need a favor,” Crutch replied.

Mickey lumbered into the cellblock. Only twenty-eight, he was so overweight that he had difficulty walking. He stopped at Crutch’s cell door, his body jiggling.

“What’s up little man?” Mickey asked.

“I want to know who searched my cell.”

“One of the guards searched your cell.”

“It wasn’t one of the guards. It was someone else.”

“That’s news to me.”

Everything’s news to you, Crutch nearly said.

“Can you ask around, and find out for me?”

“What’s it worth to you?”

Telling Mickey that he wanted something would only increase its eventual price.

“The usual.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

Mickey left the cell, the steel door banging behind him. Crutch heard the static of a walkie-talkie as Mickey called around. Soon, Mickey was back at Crutch’s cell.

“Who did you piss off?” Mickey asked.

Crutch feigned innocence and shook his head.

“It was two FBI agents,” Mickey said solemnly. “The first was Special Agent Vaughn Wood. He’s the director of the FBI’s Jacksonville office.”

Crutch knew of Wood. He was low level, and not someone who worried him.

“Who was the second person?” Crutch asked.

“It’s gonna cost you extra.”

“Why?”

“Because I said so, little man.”

Crutch gripped the bars at chest height. Mickey was leaning close enough for him to grab him by the head and pull his face into the bars so he could sink his teeth into the carotid artery in his throat. One bite, and fat boy would be doing the death dance.

“How much?” Crutch asked.

“Double.”

Mickey grinned wickedly. The second name was much better than the first. That was why Mickey was putting him through the wringer.

Kill him, said the voice inside his head.

“You’ve got a deal,” Crutch said.

Mickey brought his face closer and dropped his voice. “The second guy in your cell was Special Agent Ken Linderman. He used to be a profiler at Quantico, now runs the CARD unit down in Miami, whatever that is. I hear he’s a big shot.”

Crutch released the bars and lowered his hands. Ken Linderman had helped capture half the serial killers in the country through his profiling. Now he was on a one-man crusade looking for his precious little daughter. Of all the FBI agents who could have searched his cell, Linderman was the most dangerous.

“I want the money by tomorrow,” Mickey said.

Kill him now, the voice said.

“Of course,” Crutch replied.

Mickey left, leaving Crutch with his dark thoughts.

Crutch knew how it worked with the FBI. They could enter any prison at any time, and start giving orders like they owned the place. If Linderman wanted to search his cell again, he would. Next time, Crutch might not be so lucky.

The surveillance camera in the hall was pointed away from his cell. He lifted up his cot, and unscrewed the right front leg. The people who ran the prison were cheap. When a bed broke, it was repaired in the machine shop instead of being replaced. He wasn’t the only inmate who’d paid to have a hollow leg put on his bed.

Two items fell out of the hollow leg into his hand. A long piece of steel with a sharpened point — what prisoners called a shiv — and a 16 gigabyte memory stick he’d found on the floor of the records department. No bigger than his thumb, the memory stick held more data than most PCs, and could be plugged into the department’s computers through their USB ports. Stored on the stick was a project which he called The Program. It was the most important thing he owned, and could not fall into the FBI’s hands.

He returned the shiv to its hiding place. Taking a pack of gum off the bookshelf, he carefully peeled away the plastic, and used it to wrap the memory stick.

The surveillance camera in the hall was still pointed the wrong way. He dropped his pants and sat on the toilet. Reaching between his legs, he stuck the memory stick up his rectum into his anal cavity. He didn’t imagine the FBI looking there.

He lay down on his bed, and stared at the ceiling. Several years of research had gone into the Program, and he likened it to doing a doctor’s thesis. It was his life work, and would live on long after he had perished.

It had all started one day in the mess hall. Another inmate, a professional jewel thief, had told him how he’d been “turned out’ by his father. Crutch had never heard the expression before, and asked what it meant.

“It’s how you get trained,” the jewel thief had explained. “An older guy takes you under his wing and teaches you the trade, then turns you out into the world.”

“Like an apprentice,” Crutch said.

“Exactly. You gotta have young people coming up.”

The jewel thief was right. Every trade needed new blood. But there was a problem in Crutch’s world. Law enforcement was becoming more adept at catching serial killers. Their ranks were thinning, one killer at a time.

He’d decided to change that.

With the memory stick, he’d downloaded hundreds of documents off the Internet, which he’d later studied when he was supposed to be data processing. Written by doctors and psychiatrists, the documents were about the minds of serial killers, and why they killed. He’d compared their findings to his own experiences, and the experiences of other serial killers whom he’d talked to in prison. Over time, he’d begun to see certain patterns and shared experiences. The fantasies that drove serial killers were different, yet originated from the same dark place in the soul. And those fantasies started young.

Crutch was an engineer by trade, and knew that his research was flawed. The pool he was drawing from was too small to be conclusive. He’d needed more information, only the Internet didn’t have it. He’d decided to hack the FBI’s web site.

The FBI had more information about serial killers than any other police agency in the world. Their site had hundreds of thousands of criminal case records and hundreds of lengthy reports. These were not clinical dissertations, but gritty accounts from agents assigned to fight monsters. Crutch had gotten his hands on the good stuff.

By combining the FBI’s information with his own research, he’d written a manual on how to turn out a serial killer. In the first chapter, he’d profiled the kind of teenage boys who were driven into violent fantasy lives. Teens who’d already committed violent acts — or taken a human life … were the best candidates.

Once the right teen was found, the boy needed to be kept isolated, and subjected to sensory deprivation. The tortures at Gitmo had proven that a person’s defenses could be quickly broken down. Bombarding the teen with pornographic films was one way to accomplish this; playing raucous music another.

The final phase of the Program was the most important. In it, the teen was made to perform a progression of violent acts while under the influence of drugs and alcohol, culminating in the murder of a young woman. This killing would be the teen’s defining moment, and determine whether he would graduate.

Crutch had planned to test The Program once he was paroled. But waiting had proven unbearable. He had to know if his thesis was right, so he’d found someone on the outside to help him.

According to the FBI’s web site, there were fifteen active serial killers in the country. Some were relatively new to the game, while others were old hands. The most intriguing was Killer X, who’d been hacking up prostitutes for twenty-five years. Killer X was getting on in years, and needed to pass the torch. He was the perfect person to test The Program.

The next step had been finding Killer X. That part had lasted many months. He had studied Killer X’s victims, and eventually seen a pattern that had eluded the FBI. That pattern had allowed him to identify the type of work Killer X did for a living. Renting a cell phone from one of the other inmates, he’d then tracked Killer X down.

Their first conversation had lasted several hours. Killer X had sounded tired of killing, yet had confessed that he did not know how to stop. Right then, Crutch had known that Killer X was the right person for the job.

He rose from his bed and went to the cell door. The surveillance camera was pointing at his cell now. It scared him, knowing how close he’d come to being caught. He needed Linderman gone so he could continue with his work.

Kill him, said the voice inside his head.

“I’m working on it,” he said aloud.

Chapter 19

Eric Drake looked like he’d gone ten rounds with Mike Tyson. His right eye was swollen shut, his lips red and busted, and his nose resembled an overcooked blood sausage. The ice pack dripping down the side of his face only added to the gloom.

Linderman entered the interrogation room inside the Jacksonville Pretrial Detention Facility already knowing what had happened to Drake. Another inmate in the lockup had recognized Drake from Starke Prison, and decided to settle an old score. Drake had come out on the losing end of the exchange.

Drake’s lawyer sat beside him. His last name was Rucker, which Linderman thought he should change for obvious reasons. Rucker was shaped like a possum, and wore a cheap suit that did not fit him, and sported a haircut that resembled a bird’s nest. Those were not good signs in the criminal defense world.

Linderman closed the door and leaned against it. He crossed his arms in front of his chest, and gave Drake a soul-searching stare.

“I want to offer you a deal,” the FBI agent said.

“Can you believe the nerve of this guy?” Drake muttered to his attorney.

“Hear him out,” Rucker said.

“This guy shot my brother to death this morning. Then he fucking lied to me, and said my brother had killed an FBI agent. Now he wants to cut me a deal.”

“Hear him out,” Rucker repeated.

“Why the hell should I?”

“He’s holding all the cards, Eric, and you’re holding none. As your attorney, I’d encourage you to listen to whatever he has to say.”

“You’re not my attorney, Fred, you’re my brother-in-law.”

“Just shut up and listen to him, Eric. Please. It’s for your own good.”

Drake said something unintelligible under his breath. The ice pack was leaking down the side of his face and soaking the collar of his orange jumpsuit. He looked more than a little bit afraid. Justice had a way of catching up to people, and paying them back when they were least expecting it. It was payback time for Drake.

“What’s your deal?” Drake asked.

“I want you to go back to the prison tonight, and give your contact a bag of cell phones that the FBI will supply you,” Linderman said.

“What do I get in return?”

“Play ball, and I’ll ask the prosecutor to drop all charges against you.”

“You’re yanking my chain.”

“No, I’m not.”

Rucker grabbed his client’s biceps and gave it a squeeze.

“Take it,” the attorney whispered.

“I gotta think about this,” Drake whispered back.

“Take it, before he changes his mind.”

“Is this a sting?” Drake asked Linderman.

“Yes, Eric, it’s a sting.”

“Who are you setting up?”

“That’s none of your business.”

Drake eyelids flickered. Thinking hard about what he was getting himself into, and the consequences once it played out.

“I want a new identity and to be put in witness protection,” Drake blurted out.

“Eric…” the attorney said.

“Shut up,” Drake said. To Linderman he said, “The inmate I rent the cell phones to is named Thunder. Thunder used to run the Latin Kings down in Miami. When he finds out I set him up, he’ll send a posse to kill me, no questions asked.”

“I can put you in witness protection,” Linderman said.

“Do I get to pick the city?”

“Name it.”

“Arizona.”

“Done,” Linderman said.

“When is this sting going down?”

“Tonight.”

“What if Thunder asks about my face? What do I tell him?”

“Tell him were in a car accident.”

“I’ll need you to give me a story. I’m no good at lying.”

“I can give you a story. We can work on it back at your house.”

“All right. I’m in.”

Rucker sprang to his feet and stuck out his hand. Linderman shook it, sealing the deal. Drake cleared his throat and said, “Hold on a minute.”

The tone of Drake’s voice was troubling. Like he was about to drop a bomb on them. Linderman dropped the attorney’s hand and shot Drake a hard stare.

“What’s wrong?” Linderman asked.

“If this sting goes sideways, I don’t want to get blamed,” Drake said.

“Why would it go sideways?”

“Thunder might find out it’s a sting. He’s a mean sob.”

“If you handle it right, he won’t know a thing.”

“It doesn’t matter how I handle it. Thunder still might find out. Other inmates, too.”

Drake knew something that he wasn’t sharing. Linderman crossed the interrogation room and stopped a foot from Drake’s chair.

“Explain yourself,” the FBI agent said.

“I told you this morning that every inmate is allowed to keep five grand in a bank account,” Drake said. “Thunder uses his money to bribe the guards for information. So do a lot of the other inmates. There are no secrets inside Starke Prison.”

Linderman thought back to Crutch crossing the prison yard while chatting amicably to a guard. It had looked innocent, only now he realized how dangerous it really was.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Linderman said.

An hour later, Drake was released from the lockup. Linderman was waiting outside the PDF in an unmarked van, which he used to drive Drake back to his house on the south side of town. Vaughn Wood and two field agents followed in a second van. The two vehicles parked in Drake’s driveway behind his pickup truck, and everyone got out.

Drake entered the house and went to his bedroom to change. The two field agents accompanied him. As was customary with sting operations, Drake would be watched round-the-clock until the sting took place. They didn’t want Drake to get a change of heart, and tip someone off. The only way to prevent that from happening was by bird-dogging Drake, and making sure he didn’t call anyone.

Linderman sat at the dining room table with a notepad and a pen. He composed a story for Drake to use if Thunder asked him about his busted up face. He tried to keep it simple, in the hopes that Drake would be able to remember it.

Drake appeared freshly showered and shaved and wearing clean clothes. He sat across from Linderman and drummed the table. Linderman looked up from his writing.

“Tell me what I’m gonna say tonight if Thunder questions me,” Drake said.

“Here’s what I came up with.” Linderman looked down at the notepad. “After you left work this morning, you were sitting at an intersection waiting for the light to change when a drunk rammed your pickup from behind. You weren’t wearing a seatbelt, and your face hit the dashboard. The bag of cell phones got ruined, and you had to go to Radio Shack and replace them. That’s your story.”

“Let me try.”

Linderman slid the notepad across the table, and Drake recited the story back to him. Coming out his mouth, the words sounded stiff and false. Drake knew it, and slapped his palm on the table.

“This ain’t gonna work,” he said miserably.

“Then simplify it,” Linderman suggested. “Tell Thunder you wrecked your car, and the phones got destroyed. Let him figure out the rest.”

“What if he starts questioning me?”

“Walk away.”

“I guess it’s worth a shot,” Drake mumbled.

Linderman tapped his pen on the table. Drake’s comment that there were no secrets inside Starke Prison had given him food for thought. “Do you know an inmate named Jason Crutchfield? He goes by the nickname Crutch.”

“Everyone knows Crutch,” Drake said.

“Does Crutch bribe the guards?”

“Oh, yeah. Crutch is a big source of cash.”

“Which ones?”

“Mostly to the guards in his cellblock. You know, for information about stuff going on inside the prison. There’s someone else, too.”

Drake was like a little kid who couldn’t keep a secret. Linderman leaned in.

“Who’s that?” the FBI agent asked.

“Alvin Hodges in the records department,” Drake replied. “Crutch pays Alvin so he can get on his computer. Alvin goes out for a smoke, and leaves his computer running so Crutch can surf the Internet.”

Linderman tossed his pen onto the table. Every rock he flipped over, another snake slithered out. Crutch had a cell phone at his disposal, and unobstructed use of the Internet. Had he been a teenager, he would have been sent to his room, only this was a highly intelligent sociopath. Crutch was as dangerous as a lunatic with a loaded gun.

He had to handle this carefully. Once he found out why Crutch was talking to Mr. Clean, he would take his toys away from him, and threaten to get several more years added to his prison sentence. He would put the squeeze on Crutch, and scare him into coughing up what he knew about Danni. It wasn’t ethical, but he didn’t care. He was going to find out what Crutch knew about his daughter’s disappearance before he left Starke.

A loud knock brought Linderman to his feet. He opened the front door to find Woods’s assistant, a freckle-faced, red-haired young woman named Clare, standing on the stoop. Dangling from her hand was a large canvas bag.

“Good afternoon, Special Agent Linderman,” she said. “How are you?”

“I’m fine, Clare. Yourself?”

“Just terrific. I’ve got the six slave phones you requested. The guys in the lab tested them earlier, and the phones work great. There’s a problem with the satellite, but that should be fixed later this afternoon.”

“What kind of problem?”

“Reception issues. The techs assure me it’s no big deal.”

“Great. Have you gotten a warrant for us to eavesdrop?”

“Yes. We contacted a judge this morning. It’s all been taken care of.”

Clare passed him the canvas bag with a big smile on her face. He’d worked with Clare before; nothing seemed to faze her, and everything was either terrific or great.

“How do I turn on the special chips inside the phones?” he asked.

“You don’t have to. The chips will come on when the phones are powered up. The technology is brand new. It’s really amazing.”

Linderman took a slave phone from the bag and pulled off the back cover. The inner workings looked normal. That was good, because he had a feeling that Crutch might get curious and check out the new phone when it was given to him.

“Thanks for the quick turnaround,” Linderman said. “Please call me when the reception issues have been worked out.”

“I will. Have a terrific day.”

He stood in the open door way and watched Clare walk to her car. She stared at different birds and stopped once to watch a pair of squirrels race playfully across a tree limb. She appeared utterly happy and without a care in the world, and he wondered if he’d ever been like that. If he had, he couldn’t remember it.

He returned to the dining room. Opening the canvas bag, he placed each of the slave phones on the table. Drake stared at them with a dull look on his face.

“Those the new phones I’m going to deliver?” he asked.

“That’s right, Eric.”

“What was she saying about the satellite?”

“There’s a problem with the reception that’s being fixed.”

“I sure hope this works.”

Linderman’s cell phone vibrated in his pocket and he took it out. It was Rachel. They hadn’t spoken all day, and he walked outside the house for some privacy.

“Good morning. How’s it going?” Linderman greeted her.

“I’m going to kill the son-of-a-bitch,” Vick replied.

Chapter 20

Vick sat in her Audi with the windows rolled up. Her dumb-ass police sidekick leaned on the hood, blowing smoke rings like a circus clown. His hand had brushed her thigh during the ride over, and she’d nearly punched his lights out.

“You mean DuCharme?” Linderman asked over the phone.

“Yes, DuCharme,” Vick said.

“Tell me what happened.”

“I thought we’d caught Mr. Clean on the web site,” Vick explained. “DuCharme called in the cavalry without telling me. His call went out to every cruiser in the county. He referred to Mr. Clean by name, and called him a serial killer. I’m going to have to shut the site down.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Linderman said. “I thought the web site was a good idea.”

There was a conciliatory tone in Linderman’s voice. He cares how I feel, she thought. It softened the blow, and she felt herself calm down.

“Are you with DuCharme right now?” Linderman asked.

“Yes, but he can’t hear me. How are things in Jax?”

“I’ve had a productive day. Mr. Clean’s contact at the prison is a serial killer named Crutch. I’m setting up a sting that should put a slave phone in Crutch’s hands tonight. There are some reception issues that need to be cleared up. Once they are, I’ll call you.”

“That’s the best news I’ve heard all day,” Vick said.

“How’s the rest of your investigation going?”

“It’s hit a wall.”

“Don’t give up. Run down every lead, no matter where it takes you. We still don’t know what Mr. Clean’s motive is for abducting these boys.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I also want to make a suggestion. Get rid of DuCharme. I heard a bad story about him before I left.”

“What did he do?”

“DuCharme was part of a bust with two vice cops. They were in the suspect’s house making the arrest when the suspect pulled a gun. One of the vice cops shot the suspect, and he died. The Broward cops conducted an internal investigation to make sure everyone’s story matched up. DuCharme and the vice cops were required to turn over their guns to have ballistic tests run on them. Guess what the tests revealed?”

“I have no idea.”

“DuCharme’s gun didn’t have a bullet in the chamber when the bust went down.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“I wouldn’t kid you, Vick. He’s a menace. Get rid of him.”

DuCharme hopped off the hood and came up to her door. Vick was afraid he knew they were talking about him, and put on a fake smile.

“Yes, sir. I’ll talk to you soon.”

She folded her phone and got out of the car.

“Still angry at me?” DuCharme asked.

“Whatever gave you that idea?” Vick said.

Run down every lead, no matter where it takes you.

Vick walked up the path with DuCharme on her heels. The single-story house was owned by Wayne Ladd’s mother, Jewel, and had mustard colored walls and old-fashioned jalousie windows. The roof was missing several shingles, and resembled a patchwork quilt. Parked in the car port was an aging Saturn and a bicycle with two flats.

“I don’t understand why we came here,” DuCharme said.

“I want to talk to Mrs. Ladd,” Vick replied.

“But she’s a drunk. I spoke with her yesterday. It was a waste of time.”

“Please lower your voice.” Vick pressed the front buzzer. Hearing nothing inside, she pulled back the rusty screen door, and rapped on the front door. “Anybody home?”

“Hold on,” a woman’s voice called from within.

“I’ll wait,” Vick called back.

“Probably just crawled out of bed,” DuCharme said.

“Please stop.”

“I just don’t get why we’re here, that’s all.”

“Then I’ll explain. We think Mr. Clean abducted Wayne Ladd because he killed his mother’s boyfriend. Only Wayne’s girlfriend swears that Wayne isn’t the killer, and only confessed to the crime to protect his mother. That’s why we’re here.”

“So what are we looking for?” DuCharme asked.

“The truth.”

The door opened to reveal a middle-aged woman reeking of booze. Hopelessly frail, she had a weather-beaten face and bloodshot eyes, and could barely stand up. A tabby cat slipped between her legs, escaping outside.

“Who are you?” she slurred, clearly drunk.

“Good morning, Mrs. Ladd,” DuCharme said, turning on the charm. “This is Special Agent Vick with the FBI. We’d like to speak with you. May we come in?”

“You were here yesterday,” she said to DuCharme.

“That’s correct,” the detective replied.

“Is this about my baby?”

“Yes, it is,” DuCharme said.

Her voice rose. “You found him, didn’t you? Wayne’s dead, isn’t he?”

“No, ma’am…”

Jewel Ladd’s face cracked, and she began to sob. DuCharme looked at Vick as if to say Now what? Vick felt like she’d been set up, and that DuCharme had known how this would play out well before she’d knocked on the door.

“Deal with her,” Vick said.

Being small had its advantages. Vick glided around Jewel Ladd and went inside. She entered the living room and took stock of the interior. Jewel had done a good job of blocking out the sunlight, and a TV flickered in the corner like a campfire. Vick found a hallway leading to the back of the house, and headed down it.

Vick wasn’t sure what she was looking for. She knew little about Wayne Ladd except for his crimes. That had jaded her into thinking he was simply another adolescent monster. Her talk with Amber had changed that perception. Amber had said Wayne was gentle and kind, qualities that violent boys rarely exhibited. It had made Vick wonder if really she knew anything about him.

She came to a pair of doors at the hallway’s end. Taped to one was a photograph of a blond-haired, dimple-faced young man wearing an Army uniform. Vick guessed this was the bedroom of the older brother, Adam, who’d died in Iraq.

The second doorway had a splashy poster from the movie Wayne’s World. She didn’t have to guess whose room this was.

She stuck her head into the second bedroom. Tiny, with a desk and a bed shoved into opposite corners. The walls were black, the ceiling white, with plenty of streaks where the colors came together. A Megan Fox bikini-poster hung over the bed. No one should have a body that gorgeous.

She cased the room. A pile of text books sat on the desk. She glanced over the titles. Advanced Algebra, Biology, English lit, third year Spanish, and a novel by Kurt Vonnegut, Breakfast of Champions. The kid wasn’t stupid.

She found Wayne’s notebooks beneath the pile. She thumbed through them, hoping to find some personal notes or drawings that might give some insight to Wayne’s psyche. Instead, she found page after page of school notes.

The closet was next. Wayne’s wardrobe consisted of baggy jeans, chinos, and Nike sneakers. An electric guitar sat in the corner wired to a speaker. Behind it, a shelving unit containing song books and a shoe box filled with letters.

She went through the shoe box. The letters had been sent from Adam Ladd when he was stationed in Baghdad. In chilling detail, Adam had described life in a war zone, and the numbing effect it was having on him, and the other soldiers in his platoon. She put the letters away thinking the two brothers had been close.

The last place she looked was under the bed. That was where boys usually stored things. She found a thin cardboard box filled with photos of Wayne taken in elementary school. He’d been a handsome kid even back then.

Vick dusted herself off. Something wasn’t right here. It took a minute, but she finally put her finger on it. The room was too normal. She’d expected to find a collection of hunting knives, or an illegal handgun, or a diary filled with rants against his teachers and classmates with some graphic drawings thrown in. These were the things that indicated deep-rooted anger in teenage boys. So where were they?

She had a thought. Perhaps Jewel had gone through her son’s room after his arrest, and thrown out the bad things. That was the natural thing for a mother to do. She decided to ask her, and returned to the front of the house.

Jewel lay on her back on the couch, passed out. DuCharme stood beside her, shaking his head.

“She kept crying until she fell asleep,” he said. “She’s really looped.”

“I need to ask her some questions,” Vick said.

“Good luck.”

“You’re not going to help me wake her up?”

“What do you want me to do — sing to her?”

Vick knelt down beside the couch and gently shook Jewel’s shoulder. “Mrs. Ladd? Please wake up. I need to speak with you.”

Jewel muttered under her breath but did not come to. Vick hoped a strong cup of coffee would bring her around, and stood up.

“I’m going to brew some coffee. Stay here and watch her.”

“Get me a cup,” DuCharme said. “Sugar, no cream.”

“In your dreams.”

The kitchen was like the rest of the house — dark and depressing. Vick found the coffee maker on the counter. Beside it sat a fifth of vodka in a brown paper bag. She pulled the bottle out of the bag to see that three quarters was already gone. She fished out the sales receipt. Jewel had bought the bottle from a liquor store that morning.

It made Vick mad. Jewel was getting shit-faced while her son was being held captive by a killer. She poured the rest down the drain, and returned to the living room.

“No coffee?” DuCharme asked.

“Lock the door on your way out,” Vick said.

Popping the trunk of her Audi, Vick fished through the box filled with files of active cases. She found Wayne Ladd’s file, and soon was studying it in her car. DuCharme climbed in and fastened his shoulder harness.

“Ready when you are,” he said.

She ignored him, and continued to read. Wayne Ladd had murdered his mother’s boyfriend by sticking a bayonet through his heart. The boyfriend was a bartender with a history of abusing women. When the police had arrived at the boyfriend’s house, Wayne had been standing over him clutching the weapon, his clothes soaked with blood. He had confessed at the scene, and shown no remorse.

Vick found the description of the bayonet buried in the report. The murder weapon was a Swiss Sig 1957 Pattern Bayonet, made of tempered steel, with a nine and a half inch blade. The detective who’d written the report had checked the bayonet’s history, and discovered that it was a collector’s item, and cost three hundred dollars on the open market.

Vick closed the report, deep in thought.

“Find something?” DuCharme asked.

“Yes.”

“Are you going to tell me, or do I have to arm wrestle you?”

“Wayne’s bedroom didn’t have a single military item in it, yet the bayonet was a collector’s item. The murder weapon belonged to someone else.”

“You don’t think Wayne is a killer, do you?”

“No, I don’t.”

“You’re pissing in the wind. The kid had a motive, and he confessed. Case closed.”

Vick slapped the file shut and tossed it into the backseat. DuCharme was right; she was grasping at straws. Only the smug look on the detective’s face was too much to bear. That, and the knowledge that Linderman had moved the investigation forward, and was close to catching their killer, while she had done nothing.

She fired up her engine and backed down the drive.

Chapter 21

The Broward Sheriff’s Office Evidence Unit was situated a block off Sunrise Boulevard inside a soulless industrial park. The size of a small airplane hanger, the warehouse housed over a quarter million pieces of crime-related evidence, and was responsible for maintaining the integrity of evidence before trials.

The reception desk was empty. Vick and DuCharme scribbled their names on a sign-in sheet and waited for assistance. DuCharme whistled like he was doing bird calls.

“You are so easily amused,” she said.

“Two o’clock. Everybody must be on break,” the detective said.

“Do they all take a break at the same time?”

“Sure. They’re three-ninety-fives.”

“Is that their job classification?”

“Uh-huh. They make nothing, and give nothing in return.”

Vick tapped her toe impatiently. It was not unusual at police evidence warehouses for things to get misplaced or simply disappear, never to be seen again. She hoped this wasn’t the case with the murder weapon in Wayne Ladd’s case.

She wanted to see that bayonet. During her training at Quantico, she’d learned a great deal about weaponry. The Swiss made some of the finest weapons in the world, and proudly marked their products with serial numbers. If Wayne’s bayonet contained a serial number, she’d have a good chance of tracking down it’s previous owner.

An evidence tech appeared behind the desk. Blond and skinny, he didn’t look old enough to be shaving. He grinned at Vick while acting like DuCharme wasn’t there.

“Afternoon. Can I help you?” the tech said cheerfully.

Vick and DuCharme both displayed her ID.

“We need to get a piece of evidence from storage,” Vick explained.

“Wow. You’re with the FBI. I always wanted to be an FBI agent,” the tech said. “Do you like your job?”

“The hours are long and the pay stinks,” Vick said. “Otherwise, it’s a great life.”

The tech laughed under his breath. He slid a request form across the desk.

“Fill this out, and I’ll go find your evidence myself,” the tech said.

“Why, thank you.”

DuCharme filled out the form. Protocol dictated that only a Broward detective could request evidence from the Broward Evidence Unit. Vick made sure that DuCharme wrote the case number in bold letters so the tech didn’t bring them the wrong item. When DuCharme was finished, Vick handed the tech the sheet.

“Sit tight. I’ll be right back,” the tech said.

“What a loser,” DuCharme said when the tech was gone.

“I thought he was kind of cute,” Vick said.

“Is that the kind of guy you like? Young and stupid?”

“Yes. The dumber the better.”

The tech returned with the murder weapon. It was inside a plastic bag and looked like a kid’s toy. Vick removed the bayonet from the bag, and balanced it on her palm.

It was not a toy. Over a foot long, and heavy. Knives could be used for different things, but a bayonet’s purpose was to take human life. It made her think that whoever had given the bayonet to Wayne had expected him to kill with it.

Knowing the bayonet had gone straight through a man’s heart gave Vick pause. She spied a serial number printed on the neck in tiny letters. She’d hit pay dirt.

“I need to examine this,” she said to DuCharme.

“I’ll sign it out,” the detective replied.

DuCharme played with the bayonet while Vick drove to police headquarters. He’d already forgotten about the tech, and hummed softly to himself. She wondered if it was his upbringing or lack of education that made him so unbearable to be around. She thought he might cut himself with the blade, but didn’t say anything.

Back in her temporary office, Vick got on the Internet, and did a Google search for Swiss Sig distributors in the United States. There was only one, located in San Francisco. She went to their web site and scrolled through the pages. There was no phone number, just an email address, and she fired off a letter to the president, asking for his help. In the letter she included the serial number off Wayne’s bayonet, along with her own contact information.

“You done?” DuCharme asked. He sat on the other side of the desk, rattling his car keys. They hadn’t eaten lunch, and he acted hungry.

“Not yet,” Vick replied.

“Soon?”

“Hard to say.”

“Want to get a bite to eat?”

Vick’s cell phone rang, saving her. It was Linderman.

“Hey, Ken,” she answered.

“The reception issue has been cleared up. The sting is on,” Linderman said. “Crutch will be given a slave phone tonight. If he contacts Mr. Clean, the slave phone will tell us the phone number Mr. Clean is using, and his physical location. I want you to get a team of agents to together, and be ready to run him down.”

Vick felt her heartbeat quicken. “Yes, sir.”

“I don’t want the Broward cops to know about this. That includes DuCharme.” He paused. “Is he still working with you?”

“Yes.” Her voice was a monotone.

“Get rid of him right now. That’s an order.”

“Will do.”

“I’m counting on you, Vick. This may be our last chance to catch Mr. Clean.”

“I won’t let you down.”

The call ended without Linderman saying goodbye. Vick folded her phone while looking across the desk. DuCharme had a loopy grin on his face. Rising from her chair, she shut the door, then leaned against the desk and faced him.

“Ready to go?” the detective asked.

“I’ve got some bad news,” she said. “We’re no longer working together.”

He frowned. “Is that what that phone call was about? Someone called, and told you to get rid of me?”

“It’s my decision. I should have told you earlier, at the library. I can’t have you undermining me or questioning my decisions. You’re hurting my investigation.”

“What? You’re too good to be questioned? Is that it?”

“I never said that.”

“We’re supposed to be a team.”

“This is my investigation, not yours.”

“That’s not the way it was explained to me.”

Vick folded her arms. She had said all she was going to say. DuCharme got the hint and abruptly stood up.

“You know what your problem is, Rachel?” He paused, as if expecting a reply.

Vick said nothing.

“You’ve got a crush on Wayne Ladd. He’s young and pretty, and that’s what turns you on. You’ve convinced yourself that he isn’t a killer despite all the evidence, so you’re running around town, trying to prove otherwise. It’s a god damn waste of time.”

Vick didn’t like his tone, or the way he was looking at her.

“Please leave,” she said.

“Are you throwing me out?”

“Yes.”

“You’ve got some nerve, little lady.”

Vick nearly slapped him across the face. Instead, she pushed herself off the desk, and walked around him. She jerked open the door.

“Get out,” she said.

DuCharme’s face turned bright red and the veins popped in his neck. His dreams of chatting Vick up over a late lunch had come crashing down on his head. Hustling past her, he walked quickly down the hallway toward the elevators.

“Stupid bitch,” he said loud enough for her to hear.

Chapter 22

At a few minutes before midnight, Linderman drove an unmarked FBI van beneath the wooden arch that greeted visitors to Starke Prison. A thunder storm had settled in, and the van skidded on the rain-slicked highway. Drake emitted a nervous laugh.

“Just be my luck to get in a wreck,” the prison guard said.

Linderman glanced at the pair of headlights in his mirror. Wood was following in a second van and had also taken the skid. Wood righted his vehicle and fell in behind him. Up ahead, the lights from the prison blinked like buoys in a turbulent sea.

“Tell me what I’m supposed to say if Thunder asks about my face,” Drake said.

“We just talked about this,” Linderman replied.

“I know, but my memory ain’t for shit. Tell me again.”

“You’re not high, are you?”

“Course not.”

Linderman repeated the story. Drake was a strange bird. His imagination was limited to NASCAR and the sitcoms he watched on TV. John Wayne once said that life was tough, but it was tougher if you were stupid. Drake lived up to that remark.

“Got it,” Drake said “Now explain the deal to me again.”

“We signed papers with your lawyer,” Linderman said. “The deal is done.”

“I know it’s done. I just want to hear it again.”

“Once you deliver the slave phones to Thunder, you’ll walk out of the prison, and get in a van being driven by Special Agent Wood. Wood will drive you to a hotel by the airport where a pair of FBI agents are waiting.”

“A safe house,” Drake said.

“That’s right. You’ll stay in a room with the agents. If we have to use you again, the same procedures will be followed. Once the sting is done, you’ll be put on a plane to Arizona, and enter witness protection.”

“Will there be a car in Arizona for me, and a house?”

“Yes, Eric.”

“I’m gonna need money.”

“We’ll help you find a job. Anything else you want to know?”

“I think I’m good,” Drake said.

Soon they were on prison grounds. Linderman parked and zippered up his rain slicker. They both got out. Drake turned up his collar and headed toward the employee entrance of the prison. He had not gone five steps when Linderman called out to him.

“Your forgot something,” the FBI agent said.

Eyes downcast, Drake retrieved the slave phones from the back seat.

Linderman entered Warden Jenkins’ office at a few minutes past midnight. A dinner tray from the cafeteria sat on the desk, the meat loaf and mashed potatoes hardly touched. Jenkins sat at his desk, staring at his computer.

“You want some dinner?” Jenkins asked.

“I already ate,” Linderman said. “Is the feed on your computer?”

“Yes, sir. Came in a few minutes ago. I’ve never been involved in a sting operation,” Jenkins admitted. “What exactly is going to happen?”

“It’s quite simple. Any call made over the slave phones will be transmitted by satellite to our Jacksonville office. The call will be recorded, and typed up by a stenographer. The text will be sent to your computer for us to see.”

“What kind of delay is there?”

“It depends upon how fast the stenographer types. There’s usually no more than a ninety second lapse.”

“How will we know which conversation is Crutch’s?”

“Two things will tell us. Crutch will be calling Broward County. His call will either have a 954 or 754 area code. And, he’s the only inmate using a cell phone who isn’t a drug dealer, so what he says will give him away.”

“Will you trace the call?”

“Yes. A team of FBI agents is standing by in Broward.”

“Sounds like you’ve got all the bases covered.”

“Let’s hope so.”

The two men fell silent. They both knew what came next. Lightning flashed in the windows and the rumble of thunder shook the building. Fifteen minutes later, Linderman’s cell phone vibrated. It was Wood, and he sounded furious.

“What’s wrong?” Linderman asked.

“Drake is in my car,” Wood said. “He changed his story.”

“Jesus Christ. I’ll be right down.”

There was no fast way out of the prison. Linderman left Jenkins’ office and was processed through the main building. He reached the parking lot five minutes later. His chest was heaving as he walked through the puddles. He wanted to rip Drake’s head off, only Drake was too dumb to understand how dangerous a changed story could be. A single slip-up or suspicion and someone could get killed.

Wood’s van was parked with its headlights on. Drake sat in the passenger seat with a blank look on his face. Linderman banged on the passenger window.

“Get out of the car,” Linderman shouted over the storm.

Drake climbed out. He stood in the pouring rain with a pitiful look on his face. Linderman grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him.

“Tell me why you changed your story,” he said.

“I’m sorry… I just forgot.”

“Tell me what you said.”

Drake cowered in fear as lightening cracked the night sky. “I saw Thunder in the mess hall. He was making snacks for the night guards. He delivers the cell phones the same time he delivers the snacks. He asked about my face. I got tongue-tied and forgot my story. I told him I’d fallen asleep driving home, and hit a tree.”

“Did he buy it?”

“I guess.”

“Did he ask you about the phones?”

“Yeah. I gave him the bag, and he said “New phones?’ and I told him the old ones got destroyed in the wreck. He asked me if I was going to charge him more to pay for them. I told him I was thinking about it.”

“Was that the end of the conversation?”

“Yeah. I left right after that.”

“You’re sure you didn’t say anything else to him?”

“Positive. Oh, wait a minute…”

“What?”

“Shit. I can’t believe it.”

“What?”

“I forgot to get the money.”

Linderman nearly hit him. Thunder had run a street gang. He would piece the puzzle together — Drake’s busted up face, the brand new cell phones, Drake forgetting to get paid — and realize that Drake was running scared, and working with the law.

“Go back and get the money,” Linderman said.

Drake’s eyes went wide. He was soaking wet and looked like a scared dog.

“Say no, and the deal is off,” Linderman told him. “We’ll take you back to your house, and leave you there.”

“No Arizona?”

“No Arizona. That’s the price for screwing up.”

A storm cloud opened up directly overhead, the rain coming down so hard that Linderman could hardly see the shivering figure standing directly in front of him.

“All right,” Drake said.

Drake went back inside the prison. Linderman climbed into the van and sat with Wood. Still breathing hard, he watched the storm rage around them.

“I’ve got a bad feeling about this,” Wood said.

Linderman did as well, but said nothing. He had long ago accepted that bad feelings were part of his work, and would only go away the day he turned in his badge.

Drake reappeared and tried to get in the car. Linderman got out, and made him stand in the rain. He was not going to have a conversation with Drake without looking him in the eye. It was the only way to gauge if Drake was telling the truth.

“Tell me what happened, and don’t leave anything out,” Linderman said.

“Thunder was still in the cafeteria. I got the money and left,” Drake said.

“What did you say to him?”

“I told him I wanted my dough.”

“How did he react?”

“He just laughed, said I had shit for brains.”

“He wasn’t suspicious?”

“Hell, no. I’ve forgotten the money before.”

“You’re not lying to me, are you Eric?”

“I swear, I’m telling you the truth.”

He stuck out his hand. “Give it to me. All of it.”

Drake removed a rolled up tube of bills from the pocket of his shirt. Linderman tore the rubber bands away and counted the money. It was all there.

“Is the deal still on? Am I still going to Arizona?” Drake asked.

“Yes,” Linderman said. “Now get the hell out of here.”

Chapter 23

Crutch lay on his cot, listening to the storm.

He thought about a girl he’d fallen in love with in the tenth grade. Lee Chambers, with shoulder-length blond hair and shimmering blue eyes, had sat behind him in science class, and was the most perfect creature he’d ever seen. They’d become friends, and had started eating lunch together in the school cafeteria. His feelings for her were only real feelings that he’d ever felt toward another human being that did not involve violence or death. It had made him think there was still hope for him.

One summer, he’d gone away to camp. Upon returning home, he had discovered that Lee’s family had moved away. Heartbroken, he’d gone to his mother for help. His mother didn’t know where the Chambers family had gone, and had told Crutch that he’d just have to adjust to the loss.

Crutch had cried for days. He could not stop thinking about his mother’s response. Another mother might have helped him get Lee’s forwarding address, and encourage him to form a pen-pal relationship. Not dear old mom. She had chosen to crush him instead.

That was when he’d started hearing a voice inside his head.

Kill the bitch, the voice had said.

The voice would not go away. A few months later, he had killed his mother and three sisters at the dining room table. That was when he’d discovered the beauty of killing, and the equitable sharing of unendurable loss, and suffering.

The steel door leading into the cellblock opened, and light flooded the cellblock. A night guard entered, and stood in the center of the cellblock with his arms crossed.

Thunder shuffled in behind the guard, carrying a bag of cell phones. Thunder was a huge Latino, his face dotted with scars and cryptic tattoos. He went to Leon’s cell first, and handed the black inmate his cell phone.

Crutch gripped the bars in sweaty anticipation. Prison life was defined by waiting. Waiting for meals, waiting to be let out in the yard, waiting to hear from lawyers. The timetable was always someone else’s. Tonight, it was Thunder’s.

“Yo peckerwood, how’s it hanging?” Thunder said, coming to his cell.

“Big and long,” Crutch replied.

“Glad to hear it.”

Crutch stuck his hand through the bars. Thunder slapped the cell phone onto his palm. The moment it touched his skin, Crutch knew something was different.

“What’s this?” he asked suspiciously.

“What do you think it is?”

“It’s new.”

“My source got into a wreck, smashed up the old ones. He had to buy new phones.”

Crutch brought the new phone up to his face. It was a Nokia. He flipped it open and studied the keypad. The numbers looked bigger.

“Give it back. I’ll rent it to someone else,” Thunder said.

Crutch continued to stare at the phone. He did not like change. It raised every suspicious fear in his body.

“No, I’ll keep it,” he said.

“Take it easy, peckerwood.”

The Latino left the cellblock with the night guard. The steel door shut behind them, plunging the cellblock into darkness.

Sitting on his bed, Crutch powered up the new cell phone. The face was brighter than his previous phone, and easier to read in the dark. Thunder purposely delivered the phones at night, when the surveillance camera could not see into the cells.

He punched in the number Killer X had given him last night and hit Send. Each time he spoke to Killer X, his friend ended the call by giving him a new phone number to call. The numbers were always to payphones. Killer X knew all the angles.

“Hello?” Killer X answered.

“It’s me,” Crutch said. “How was your day?”

“Not good.”

“What happened?”

“The police are hunting for me. I heard them talking over my scanner. They’ve even given me a name. They call me Mr. Clean.”

“You should be proud of yourself. Only special people get names.”

“They tried to trap me.”

“Really? How?”

“With a web site. Someone went to the site, and told the police what fools they were. The police thought it was me. They caught a girl at the public library.”

“A girl? Who is she?”

“I don’t know. I went to the library and watched from a safe spot across the street. Later, I called the library, and told them I was a reporter. A guard answered my questions.”

“That was ballsy.”

“I have more bad news.”

“What?”

“The FBI is involved. I spotted one of their agents at the library. A little blond bitch. She had an FBI decal on the dashboard of her car. She was running things.”

Crutch stared into the darkness of his cell. While Special Agent Linderman had searched his cell this morning, another FBI agent had been chasing Killer X in Fort Lauderdale. He did not believe in coincidences. The FBI were on to them.

“What should I do?” Killer X asked.

“Let me think about this. How is the boy doing?”

“The boy is strange. I don’t think he’s right for the Program.”

“How so?”

“He doesn’t seem angry enough.”

“He fits the profile perfectly. Keeping working with him. He’ll come around.”

“Your voice is fading.”

“We’re having a bad storm.”

“This is different. You sound far away, like at the bottom of a well.”

Crutch’s breathing grew short. Tiny gasps really, clinging at life. The new cell phone had bothered him the moment it had touched his skin. Now, he knew why. The FBI had bugged it, and Special Agent Linderman was tracing the call, and probably listening in as well. There could be no other explanation for why he’d gotten a new cell phone the same day the FBI agent had searched his cell. If he didn’t act quickly, his friend in Fort Lauderdale would be apprehended.

“Are you there?” Killer X asked.

“Still thinking.”

“I don’t want to be caught. I can’t be caught.”

The fear in his friend’s voice was palatable. Crutch imagined himself hurtling down a black, bottomless pit. His body bounced off the walls, crushing his bones and snapping his head like a rag doll. He screamed at the top of his lungs, knowing it would never end.

He pulled himself back to reality. Beads of sweat did a death march down his face. Then, he had an idea.

The FBI was on to him, but he was also on to them. He could use that to his advantage, and turn their lives into living hell.

Fuck them good, the voice in his head said.

Having Leon as a neighbor had its advantages. Drug dealers never spoke normally when they talked business. The spoke in code.

He raised the cell phone to his face.

“You need to take a vacation,” Crutch said.

“I do?”

“Yes. How does that sound?”

His friend hesitated. Then said, “A vacation sounds like a wonderful idea.”

“I knew you’d understand,” Crutch said.

Chapter 24

At twelve-thirty, the FBI satellite picked up a call from a slave phone to a 954 area code in Fort Lauderdale, and relayed the call to the FBI’s Jacksonville office.

While the call was being recorded, a stenographer wearing a headset typed the conversation into word processing program. Sixty seconds later, that conversation appeared as text on Warden Jenkin’s computer at the prison.

At the same time, the 954 number was run through a software program designed to trace phone calls. This program instantly determined the 954 number’s physical location, and emailed the address to Linderman’s iPhone, along with a street map with a red arrow showing where the call was coming from.

“Talk about one-stop shopping,” Jenkins said.

Linderman liked the analogy. When the FBI put its mind to something, there was nothing it couldn’t do. He called Vick’s cell phone and heard her pick up.

“We’ve got Mr. Clean in the cross hairs,” Linderman said.

“Yea,” Vick said.

“He’s talking at a payphone at a RaceTrac gas station on the corner of Sunrise Boulevard and State Road 84. Where are you?”

“I’m sitting in my car in a parking lot on Sunrise Boulevard near the entrance ramp to I-95,” Vick replied. “I’ve got three agents with me. Two other teams of agents are parked in other spots around the county.”

“Which team is closest to this location?”

“We are.”

“He’s yours. Get him.”

“I’m already on the road.”

Linderman needed to end the call, and let Vick do her thing. Talking was a distraction. But a nagging feeling needed to be extinguished.

“Do the Broward police know about the sting?” Linderman asked.

“No, sir.”

“What about DuCharme?”

“He’s out of the picture.”

“Glad to hear it. Good luck, Rachel.”

“Thank you, Ken.”

The line went dead. Linderman folded the phone.

“Looks like the text of their conversation is coming through,” Jenkins said, swinging his chair closer to the computer. “Damn, these letters are small.”

Linderman fitted on his reading glasses. The delayed text of Crutch and Mr. Clean’s conversation was running across the screen like an old-fashioned teletype. Reading it, he felt the hairs on his neck rise in alarm. Mr. Clean had spotted Vick at the Broward library, and knew the FBI was chasing him. Mr. Clean was scared and approaching panic mode. Serial killers who went on tilt were capable of incredible destruction. Linderman immediately called Vick back to alert her. A frantic busy signal filled his ear.

“God damn it,” he swore.

Jenkins pointed at the screen. “You better take a look at this. Something strange is going on.”

Linderman followed his finger and stared at the words on the screen.

“Let me think about this. How is the boy doing?”

“The boy is strange. I don’t think he’s right for The Program.”

“Why not?”

“He doesn’t seem angry enough.”

“Your voice is fading.”

“We’re having a bad storm.”

“This is different. You sound far away, like at the bottom of a well.”

“Who’s the boy, and what’s The Program?” Jenkins asked.

“The boy is our kidnap victim,” Linderman explained. “Mr. Clean is obviously putting him through some type of regimen.”

“Lord, I wonder what he’s doing to him.”

The text became frozen on the page. Linderman ripped off his glasses in anger and called the FBI’s Jacksonville office. He started to read the riot act to the agent coordinating the trace of Crutch’s cell phone conversation when the agent stopped him.

“There’s nothing wrong with the transmission,” the agent said.

“Then why isn’t the text moving?” Linderman snapped.

“Your suspects stopped talking. They just started back up. You’ll see the rest of the conversation shortly.”

“But why did they stop?” Linderman pressed him. “Could they have known their conversation was being bugged?”

“Possibly.”

“What do you mean, possibly?”

“There was a glitch in the system right about the time they stopped. It had to do with atmospheric conditions not being normal for this time of year. Your suspects might have heard it on their phones.”

“How long would it have lasted?”

“No more than ten seconds.”

“It would have been nice to know this before.”

“Sorry. It doesn’t happen very often,” the agent said.

Linderman ended the call. He tried to call Vick and got patched into voice mail. Vick and the rest of the agents on her team were stepping into a hornet’s nest. He left a brief message, and told Vick that she was in danger.

“For the love of Christ,” Jenkins said, “now they’re talking about taking a vacation. What the heck’s going on here?”

Linderman closed his phone and shifted his attention to the computer screen.

“You need to take a vacation.”

“I do?”

“Yes. A very long vacation.”

“That sounds like a wonderful idea.”

“I knew you’d understand.”

Linderman balled his hands into fists. The sting was blowing up in their faces. Crutch had seen through it, and was now giving Mr. Clean instructions on how to deal with the problem.

“They’ve started talking in code,” he explained.

“Like the drug dealers do,” Jenkins said.

“Exactly. The word vacation was the signal for them to start using the code. They know we’re listening to them.”

“Any idea what they’re saying?”

“Most verbal codes are fairly straight forward. Usually, the suspects simply start saying the opposite of what they mean.”

“If that’s the case, then your agent in Fort Lauderdale is in trouble,” Jenkins said.

“Take a look.”

Linderman brought his face up to the screen.

“What about the cute little blond FBI agent?”

“I think you should leave her alone.”

“But I wanted to introduce her to the judge.”

“Is he with you?”

“Oh, yes. The judge is in my car.”

“Come to think of it, that’s not a bad idea.”

His breath fogged the screen. He knew about the Judge. It was the nickname for a Taurus .410 revolver that was capable of firing shotgun shells. Judges around the country had started carrying them beneath their robes as protection against violent criminals in their courtrooms. Crutch was telling Mr. Clean that it was all right to shoot Vick.

Again he dialed Vick’s number. This time, he prayed for her to pick up.

Chapter 25

Sunrise Boulevard was a sea of headlights. One a.m. on a weekday night, and the traffic was backed up for miles.

Vick gripped the wheel and stared at the cars in front of her. Ever since joining the FBI, she’d dreamed of taking down a dangerous criminal — a terrorist, or perhaps someone on the Ten Most Wanted List. Now her dream was about to be realized.

Just up the road was the intersection for State Road 84. The RaceTrac gas station was on the southwest side. Six vehicles were parked at the gas pumps, another eight in front of the service center. Capturing Mr. Clean in a public place was dangerous, but she didn’t see any other choice.

Three veteran FBI agents shared the car with her. Special Agents Ayer and Padgham sat in back, while Special Agent Cunningham rode shotgun. Middle-aged and gray, the three men had fifty-plus years experience between them. In a small way, each reminded Vick of her father, which was strange. She despised her father, yet had chosen to lean on men similar to him for help.

The light turned green. Vick drove thirty feet before it turned red. She hit her brakes hard. Up ahead, a car backed out of a parking spot in front of the RaceTrac. Vick felt her heart skip a beat. Was Mr. Clean getting away?

The car pulled onto 84. It was a convertible with the top down, the driver a balding white male talking on a cell phone. Mr. Clean was still inside, talking to Crutch on a payphone. Vick decided to make things happen.

“I’m going to burn the light,” she said.

She put hand on the horn and kept it there. Cars parted, and a space magically opened up in front of her. She floored the gas and reached the intersection.

The turn arrow was red, the cars in front of her braked. She considered hopping the median and driving on the wrong side of the road. Only too many cars were coming in the opposite direction, and she might get in a wreck.

She kept her hand on the horn and flashed her brights. The drivers in front of her got the message, and ran the light. She did the same, taking the turn on two wheels. The entrance to the RaceTrac was right on top of her. She spun the wheel in the opposite direction. Her Audi rocked like a carnival ride.

She braked in front of the service center, her breath caught in her chest. She glanced at Cunningham, then the others. They were cool, calm and collected. Bastards.

“Badges,” Vick said.

The agents pinned their badges to their clothing so they were plainly visible.

“Everyone set?” she asked.

“Ready when you are,” Cunningham said.

They piled out of the car. The service center was a rectangular building with a wall of windows in the front. Inside, there was a food court, bathrooms, and aisles of chips and snacks. The payphones were behind the food court, next to the rear entrance. Standing at the windows, Vick spotted a large Latino male talking on a phone.

“There he is,” Vick said.

Her partners stared through the glass. Mr. Clean was hard to miss. Six-foot-three and approximately two hundred and forty pounds, he wore a white tee-shirt over his muscular chest, acid-stained jeans with holes in the knees, and his kinky hair cut short. Clutched in his hand was a super-sized fountain drink.

Vick said, “I want Ayer and Padgham to cover the back entrance while Cunningham and I go through the front. I’ll give you fifteen seconds to get around the building. Remember gentleman, our suspect is armed and very dangerous.”

Ayer and Padgham took off running. Both agents had their weapons drawn and were moving faster than their years.

Vick silently counted to fifteen. Her heart was pounding in her chest, and she tried to stay calm. Cunningham had the front door open, and she followed him inside.

Time was relative to the speed you were traveling, and how fast your heart was beating. Vick felt like she was moving in slow motion as she and Cunningham passed through the food court. She drew her Glock from the harness inside her sports jacket, and held it in front of her chest. Every movement felt painfully slow. All around her, people were ducking under tables for cover.

Mr. Clean didn’t see them coming. He was the only person at the payphones; the closest bystander an elderly woman extracting cash from an ATM machine. She got her money and teetered away, having no idea how close she’d come to a killer.

Mr. Clean raised his drink and sucked through the straw. He shook the ice cubes, trying to get the last drops of soda out of the cup. The phone’s receiver was clutched in his other hand and held down by his side. Like he’s on hold, Vick thought.

There was a wall of windows behind the pay phones. Ayer and Padgham were behind it, aiming their weapons at Mr. Clean. Vick made a quick motion with her hand, and they slipped inside the back door.

Mr. Clean was surrounded.

Finally, their suspect reacted. He placed his drink on the ledge beneath the pay phone and stared at Vick. Genuine surprise registered across his face.

“You guys filming a TV show?” he asked.

“Put your hands behind your head!” Vick shouted.

“Me?” he asked, sounding shocked.

“Yes, you! Do it now!”

Their suspect dropped the phone and clasped his hands around the back of his head. The phone was on a metal cord, and banged noisily against the wall. To Vick, it sounded like a cannon going off.

The four FBI agents quickly closed around him. While Ayer pressed his gun against Mr. Clean’s back, Cunningham made their suspect turn his pockets inside out, then frisked him. He was not armed. A cheap plastic wallet was produced. Vick pulled out a handful of credit cards and a Florida driver’s license.

“Is your name Wilfredo Pruna?” she asked.

Sweat pancakes had formed on their suspect’s tee-shirt. His breathing was labored, his eyes blinking rapidly. He looked ready to pass out.

“Yeah,” he mumbled under his breath.

“You’re under arrest,” Vick said.

“Look, I told the judge that I’d get the payment to her soon.”

“What payment is that?” Vick asked.

“The alimony payment to my ex-wife. I lost my job, got behind a few months. You know how it is.”

“We’re arresting you for kidnap and murder,” Vick said.

Pruna gave Vick a wide-eyed stare. He twisted his head to look at the other agents.

“That bastard set me up,” Pruna said angrily.

“Cuff him,” Vick said.

Cunningham made Pruna lower his arms and put them behind his back. The FBI agent put a pair of plastic handcuffs around Pruna’s wrists and pulled them tight.

“Don’t you want to hear my story?” Pruna said indignantly.

“Sure, we do,” Cunningham replied.

“I was going into the bathroom to take a leak,” Pruna said. “Guy was standing by the phones, said he’d give me ten bucks to hold the phone so he could get something from his car. I said sure. Sounded like an easy way to make some cash, you know?”

Something hard dropped in the pit of Vick’s stomach. The story sounded lame enough to be true. She thought back to the casual way Pruna had been holding the receiver. Not on hold, but waiting for someone.

She said, “Describe this guy.”

Pruna perked up. “My height, real strong-looking, had a Cuban accent. He was wearing tinted glasses and a baseball cap. He had some kind of uniform on.”

“What kind of uniform?”

“I don’t know.”

“Was he a policeman?”

“No, I’d recognize that.”

“Anything else stick out?” Vick asked.

“He was shy. He didn’t look directly at me when he spoke.”

Vick looked at her partners. Their faces said it all. They’d been set up.

“You said he went outside to his car,” Vick said. “Where was he parked?”

“I saw him walk across the field to the tire store next door,” Pruna said.

“Did you see what he was driving?”

“No. I just saw him cross the grass to the lot.”

“Show me where he went.”

Vick put her hand on Pruna’s back and turned him around so he faced the windows. Behind the convenience store were a line of cars. Beyond them, a field of knee-high grass that led to the parking lot of a Tire Kingdom. Pruna put his face up to the glass. Vick did the same. Then she saw him. A large Cuban man wearing shades and a baseball cap passing between two parked cars, walking toward her. His movements were lithe, and reminded her of a fish moving effortlessly through the water. In his outstretched right hand was a huge pistol that looked like something out of a cowboy movie.

“Get down,” Vick shrieked.

The windows imploded and glass rained around them. Vick felt a stinging sensation on her cheek and knew she’d been hit. She put her hand on Pruna’s arm and pulled him down to the floor. Her partners dropped down as well.

Mr. Clean kept firing, pinning them to the floor. Everyone in the restaurant was screaming, some in English, some Spanish, the sounds fueling its own hysteria.

“Stay down!” Vick yelled.

Pruna lay beside her on his side, moaning. A ragged bullet hole had appeared in the front of his tee-shirt. Blood began to seep out of his body like water coming out of a spigot, forming a hideous pool on the floor.

The gunshots stopped. Vick rose on shaky legs while staring through the gaping hole where the windows had been. She saw nothing.

“Is everyone okay?” Vick asked.

“We’re all hit,” Cunningham replied.

Vick checked out her team. Padgham sat on the floor, clutching his arm, his head rocking from side to side as he tried to control the pain. Cunningham and Ayer were aiming their guns at the windows, their faces covered in blood. Hundreds of tiny holes had appeared in the walls and the payphones. Mr. Clean was firing buckshot.

“Ayer, get these handcuffs off our suspect, and try to stop his bleeding,” Vick barked. “Cunningham, follow me outside.”

Vick hopped over broken glass and hurried outside with Cunningham beside her. She aimed her gun at shadows that held no threat while Cunningham searched between the rows of parked cards.

“He’s not here,” Cunningham said.

Together, they ran across the field to the Tire Kingdom, and searched its grounds. Mr. Clean had vanished. Cunningham got on his cell phone and called for backup. Vick stepped away from him, and stood very still, listening to the night sounds. It was quiet save for the hiss of cars and the mournful wail of an ambulance racing down Sunrise Boulevard. People didn’t just disappear into thin air, yet Mr. Clean had done just that.

“Where are you,” she whispered.

Her shoulders sagged, feeling the weight of her own failure. She’d done everything by the book, yet the sting had blown up in their faces. She was going to get blamed for this. It was how the game worked.

She headed back to the convenience store, knowing the worst was yet to come.

Chapter 26

Crutch lay on his cot, listening to the mayhem on his cell phone. The payphone at the Race Trac was off the hook, and he had heard Mr. Clean ambush the FBI agents who’d come to arrest him.

It was as much fun as going to the movies.

But that wasn’t the best part. Far from it. The best part was that he was on a party line, and the FBI was hearing the mayhem as well, and probably recording it. Linderman’s clever sting had blown up in his face.

That will teach you to steal my playing cards, he thought.

He heard sirens in the background. Someone should have noticed the payphone dangling off the hook by now, and had the foresight to kill the connection. But that hadn’t happened. He guessed that Mr. Clean had inflicted some serious injuries, and no one was paying attention to the little things.

He wanted them all to die. He’d counted five voices — four whom were FBI agents, the fifth the poor rube who’d gotten stuck holding the payphone — and he envisioned them all gasping their last breath, their eyelids flickering.

Lights out, sayonara, cheerio, see you in the funny papers.

Kill them all, said the voice in his head.

He heard two new voices in the background. A pair of medics were trying to save the rube. Crutch listened hard to their conversation.

“He’s lost too much blood ,” one of the medics said.

“Come on, pal, don’t give up,” the other medic said.

“Shit. He’s going down.”

The medics gave it their best shot. Finally they stopped talking and a respectful silence followed. The rube was officially dead.

Crutch shook his head ruefully. It would have been much nicer if one of the FBI agents had died, but the rube’s dying would have its benefits. The FBI had arrested an innocent man, then gotten him killed. The newspapers and TV news programs would have a field day with this. It was the kind of fuck-up they lived for.

His thoughts shifted to the FBI agents who’d participated in the sting, both here in Jacksonville, and down in Fort Lauderdale. They were probably mourning the rube’s death right about now. Crutch had never experienced feelings for strangers, but he recognized it in others. Displays of caring were how people coped with their own mortality and insecurities. It was weakness, laid out for all to see. He told himself that these FBI agents were weak, even though he’d never met them.

He went to the toilet and dropped his pants. He took a long piss while holding the cell phone above the bowl. He hoped they were all listening.

Part II

SOS

Chapter 27

Early the next morning, Linderman checked out of his motel in the town of Starke, and walked to a restaurant in town. There, he began to write a chronology of the events leading up to the botched sting.

He sat in a booth by himself, drinking coffee as he wrote in a spiral bound notebook. Soon the restaurant filled up with workers getting off their shift at the prison. Many wore dreamy looks, their eyes half-shut from exhaustion. The restaurant catered to prison people, and had an electric chair sitting in the back behind a velvet rope. The chair, he’d learned from the hostess, was a spare from the prison, and had never been used.

A waitress refilled his cup. He sipped and continued to write. He had made a mistake with his handling of the sting, and hoped that it didn’t come back to haunt him. He had not used a scribe to record things as they occurred. Scribes were essential to keeping facts straight, and for establishing time lines. An innocent man had died last night, and there would be an internal review by the bureau to find out why. He needed to get his story straight while it was still fresh in his mind. Otherwise, there would be hell to pay down the road.

Wood entered the restaurant and slipped into the booth. He wore yesterday’s clothes, his rolled up sleeves exposing the array of tattoos he’d gotten while infiltrating the motorcycle gangs. Photos of Wood from that era showed a guy with long hair, a scraggily beard, and a crazy grin. The name Little Jesus had fit him just right.

“You sleep?” Wood asked.

“Couple of hours. How about you?”

“The same. I was glued to the Internet.”

“How bad is the fallout?”

“CNN picked up the story around three a.m. Then the rest of them joined in. They’re making us look like total morons.”

“Did you expect anything less?”

“I guess not. Who the hell is Detective DuCharme?”

Linderman put his pencil down. “A useless homicide detective with the Broward Sheriff’s Department. What is he saying?”

“I turned on the TV before I left the house. DuCharme was being interviewed on one of the early morning news shows. He’s claiming that Vick screwed the investigation up from the start. He said Vick was infatuated with the kidnaping victim, and let her feelings cloud her judgement. You and I both know that’s complete bullshit, but the news shows are loving it. FBI agent falls for teen victim.”

“Is that the angle they’re using?”

“Afraid so.”

A waitress took Wood’s order. Coffee and toast. She left, and Linderman flipped the notebook around and slid it across the table. “I need you to take a look at this, and tell me if I’ve left anything out.”

Wood did not look down at the notes. Instead, he continued to gaze at Linderman. He had an everyman’s face, which had made him a perfect undercover operative back in the day. What stood out were his eyes. Dark as coal, their gaze was unflinching.

“I’ve got more bad news,” Wood said.

Linderman drew back in his seat.

“We can’t go after Crutch,” Wood said.

Linderman slammed his fist on the table. The reaction drew an interested stare from a man eating breakfast at the next table. Linderman snapped his head at the offending party, and the man went back to his scrambled eggs and sausage.

“Why not?” Linderman asked.

“You’re aware that there was an atmospheric disturbance last night which caused the satellite to drop the volume on the transmission.”

“Yes. It was what tipped Crutch off to the sting.”

“It also distorted the sound quality of the voices. You can’t identify Crutch’s voice on the tape. He sounds like an alien.”

“But we know it was him,” Linderman said.

“Yes, we do, but we can’t prove it was him.”

“Have you talked this over with legal?”

“I called our lawyer on the way here, and discussed everything with him. The burden of proof is clearly on the government’s shoulders when it comes to eavesdropping cases. We can’t prove Crutch was talking to Mr. Clean last night. Hell, we can’t prove that he was talking to anyone.”

Wood’s toast was served burned. He slathered strawberry jelly onto it, and began to eat. Soon the table was covered in tiny pieces of ash. It was a perfect metaphor for what had happened. Their case against Crutch had gone up in flames.

“Have you talked to Rachel?” Wood asked.

“I called her last night to see how she was doing,” Linderman replied. “She sounded shell-shocked. I told her to hang tough.”

“Do you think she’ll survive this?”

“She’ll survive.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“Because I’m going to take the heat on this one. I set up the sting, and I sent her into that hornet’s nest. The blame falls squarely on my shoulders for what happened.”

Wood said nothing. They’d known each other a long time, and followed the same code of ethics. They did not blame others when things broke bad. They blamed themselves. “I feel responsible in another way,” Linderman went on. “This was Rachel’s first attempt to catch a serial killer. She’s always impressed me as being smart and competent. But she’s still young, and even though I had some misgivings, I brought her up too soon.”

They fell silent. The waitress brought their check, which Linderman settled.

“Rachel lied about her age when she signed up,” Wood said.

Linderman was stunned. “How did you find that out?”

“It popped up during a background check. She was born in “83 but put “81 on her application. She’s been doing it her whole life.”

Linderman glanced at the front door of the restaurant. An elderly couple waiting for the table were shooting him hostile stares. Ignoring them, he said, “I want to hear about this.”

“Rachel lied about her age when applying for a learner’s permit to drive a car when she was thirteen,” Wood said. “When she was fifteen, she lied on a job application to work in a department store.”

“Is her lying pathological?”

“I don’t think so. I got to know Rachel when she worked in my office. Her father was a strict Baptist minister, and was abusive. Rachel wanted to get out of that house as fast as she could. So she lied about her age. One Thanksgiving she came over to the house for dinner. My wife asked her what it was like growing up in a Baptist family. Rachel said that her father had frowned upon pre-marital sex because it might lead to dancing. I’d thought she was making a joke. She wasn’t joking.”

“How long have you known this?” Linderman asked.

“I found out a few months ago. I had her change her birth date on her application so it wouldn’t haunt her later on.”

“I wish you’d picked up the phone and called me. It explains a lot of things.”

“It didn’t seem like a big deal at the time. The bureau signed up a lot of new recruits after 9/11 that they didn’t vet as thoroughly as they should have. Rachel slipped through the cracks.”

Linderman slid out of the booth and headed for the door.

“You still should have called me,” he said.

Linderman’s rental was baking in the sun behind his motel. He climbed behind the wheel and within seconds was dripping with perspiration. His body refused to adjust to the Florida heat, and he longed for the day that he and Muriel could move back to Virginia.

He called Southwest Airlines and made a reservation on a flight to Fort Lauderdale that afternoon. He was not going to let Vick take the fall for this. She had good instincts and one day would make a fine supervisor. He would take the hit and retire if he had to. He’d put in twenty-five years and would earn a full pension. It was not the swan song he’d envisioned, but life was like that sometimes. As he hung up, another call came in.

“This is Linderman.”

“Warden Jenkins here,” the caller said.

“Hello, warden. How are you this morning?”

“Fair to middling. Are you still in town?”

“Yes. I was just heading to the airport to catch a flight.”

“I have something you need to see. One of the guards just delivered a note to me. It’s from Crutch, and it’s addressed to you.”

“What does it say?”

“I don’t know. Crutch glued it shut on all four corners. I don’t know how he did that, because the inmates aren’t allowed to have adhesive in their cells.”

Or cell phones, Linderman nearly said, but stifled the remark. “Would you mind opening the letter, and reading it to me?”

“By all means.”

There was a short silence as Jenkins put down the phone. He came back on, and cleared his throat. “Here we go. Dear Special Agent Linderman: Although we have never met, I feel like I know you. I’m aware you searched my cell yesterday, and I also know why you came here. You are capable of making my life miserable, while I have the ability to help you, and your cause. Perhaps we should put down our swords, smoke a peace pipe, and talk this over. I am willing to try that approach, but as my mother used to say, it takes two to tango. If you are willing to meet with me, I must put forth one stipulation. Our talk must be in private, with no guards or other employees of the prison present. Trust me when I say you will not be disappointed in what I have to tell you. Sincerely, Crutch. God almighty, can you believe the nerve of this son-of-a-bitch?”

Linderman gazed through his windshield at the parking lot. The heat rising off the concrete made the world look twisted and out of focus. He had talked to serial killers before, and come away each time feeling like a small nick had been cut in his heart. He would lose something talking to Crutch, but had no other choice if he wanted to save Wayne Ladd.

“How soon can you set this up?” he asked.

“You’re going to do it?” Jenkins asked, sounding shocked.

“I don’t have any other choice. Our investigation has hit a brick wall.”

“Didn’t you tape Crutch’s conversation last night? He incriminated himself left and right.”

“The tape is worthless. The audio was bad.” Linderman paused, seeing menacing shapes in the shadows of his motel that had not been there before. He was exhausted, and told himself his mind playing tricks on him. “ I want to do this right now.”

“There will have to be a guard present,” Jenkins said. “We don’t allow one-on-one meetings with inmates under any circumstances. It’s too damn risky.”

“Make an exception.”

“But…”

“Just set it up. Crutch and me.”

“You’re sure you know what you’re doing.”

“Positive. I’ll be there soon.”

Linderman drove to the prison like there was no tomorrow.

Chapter 28

Warden Jenkins was still griping when Linderman entered his office and dropped into the chair across from his desk. Jenkins saw something in the FBI agent’s face that told him to stop complaining, so he did, his lips slapping shut.

“Is everything ready?” Linderman asked.

“Crutch is being moved from his cellblock to the prison chapel,” Jenkins said. “Once I get a call from the guards that he’s there, I’ll walk you over.”

“Why the chapel?”

“Crutch requested it. He goes to mass every week. I’m guessing Crutch thinks that we don’t have the chapel bugged or any hidden surveillance cameras inside.”

“Do you?”

Jenkins shook his head.

“Then he’s probably not guessing,” Linderman said. “He probably checked the chapel for bugs and knows that it’s safe. He might even have set up shop there, knowing it’s off-limits to your snooping. He could have weapons hidden inside.”

“Jesus, I never thought of that. What do you want to do?”

“Does your chaplain have an office?”

“He has a study. It’s located next to the chapel in the rear of the building.”

“We’ll do it there. Have your guards remove all sharp objects, including pens, pencils, paper clips, or anything with a sharp edge. Check the furniture to make sure none of the pieces can be screwed off, and used as weapons. Once the chaplain’s study is clear, put Crutch in there.”

“You sure you want to do this?”

“A boy’s life is at stake. I don’t have any choice.”

Jenkins got on the phone and made the necessary preparations. Finished, he hung up, and tried to engage Linderman in conversation. When his guest did not respond, he steepled his hands in front of his face, and let a long minute pass in silence.

“If you don’t mind my saying, you look like hell,” Jenkins said.

Linderman did not respond. He was running on fumes, and needed to save his energy for the prince of darkness. Confronting evil was like warfare, and required every ounce of a person’s resolve.

The phone on Jenkins’ desk lit up. Linderman knew what the call was about before Jenkins picked up the line.

Crutch sat in a folding chair with a pair of guards to either side. One guard was chewing bubble gum, the other had recently eaten onions.

Kill them, said the voice inside his head.

The chaplain’s study had been stripped clean of anything that might be used as a weapon; even the crucifixes on the walls were gone, their images still darkening the plaster. The desk was clean, as were the side tables and coffee cart. A print of the Virgin Mary holding the baby Jesus hung behind the desk, a reproduction from the Basilica of the Nativity, her gaze fixed squarely on the back of Crutch’s head.

The door opened, and Warden Jenkins and Special Agent Ken Linderman entered the study. Crutch knew the second man was Linderman by the crease in his suit and the knot in his tie. His attention to detail was extraordinary. A classic profiler.

One of the guards spoke.

“He’s clean, warden,” the guard said. “We strip-searched him before he left his cell, then searched him again when we got here.”

“Did he touch anything once you brought him into the room?” Linderman asked.

The guard doing the talking hesitated and glanced at his partner. His indecision was his answer.

“Search him again,” Linderman said.

Crutch got out of his chair and stood spread eagle against the desk, playing the good inmate. The guard who hadn’t spoken patted Crutch down and turned his pants pockets inside out, finding nothing. Linderman watched the process carefully.

“Good enough,” the FBI agent said. “You gentleman can go. Thank you.”

The guards shuffled out of the study. Jenkins said, “We’ll be in the hall if you need us,” and followed them, shutting the door behind him.

Crutch returned to his chair, and sat with his hands on his knees. He knew he was being scrutinized, but chose not to stare back, his eyes focused on Linderman’s suit. It was classic Brooks Brothers, the pants having been recut to account for his thin waist, the jacket tailored to accommodate his sidearm. Crutch was fond of nice clothes, and longed for the day he’d again wear pretty things.

“Look at me,” the FBI agent said sharply.

Crutch smiled to himself. Linderman wanted to look at his face and stare into his eyes, the eyes being a window into a person’s soul. He obliged him.

“Happy now?” Crutch asked.

Linderman crossed his arms and glared at him. Like so many serial killers, Crutch looked incomplete, as if the Creator had put down the paint brush during his portrait, and left him without several important ingredients. This was the person Crutch saw whenever he looked at himself in the mirror. A half-finished man.

“Thank you for coming so quickly,” Crutch said.

“Start talking.”

“Let me tell you what I want. If you think it’s feasible, I will tell you what I’ll give you in return. Sound promising?”

The FBI agent nodded stiffly.

“A man of few words. How refreshing. All right, here’s my request. I want you to leave me alone. No more searching my cell, or bugging my telephone conversations, or interfering with my day-to-day existence. Go back to South Florida, and stay out of my life. I know what you are, and I want you gone.”

“And what is that?”

“A killer, just like me.”

Anger danced across the FBI agent’s eyes like lightening in a window.

“I don’t belong to your sick little club,” Linderman snapped.

“Oh, yes, you do,” Crutch shot back. “I read about it on the Internet. You and your men killed Simon Skell’s gang in cold blood. You had shotguns, and Skell’s boys had handguns. You slaughtered them in that house. I went to the FBI’s web site, and looked at the dead men’s photographs. I can look at a dead person, and tell you what the person who killed him was thinking when they took their life. You had revenge on your mind. You thought Skell’s gang abducted your precious daughter, so you butchered them, and then you killed Skell. The FBI should have called you on the carpet, only the bureau doesn’t like to punish it’s stars, so they left you alone.”

“I didn’t kill Skell,” Linderman said.

“Really? The reports I read said you were there.”

“Jack Carpenter killed Skell.”

“You knew what Carpenter would do to Skell. It was no different than you killing him yourself.”

“What does any of that have to do with you?”

Linderman was no longer in command of the conversation, and on the defensive. Crutch went for the kill. “It has everything to do with me. You’re a man on a mission who’ll stop at nothing to get what he wants, including breaking laws. You’ll ruin your career just to fuck me. I recognize that trait in you, because I have it myself. I want you out of my life.”

“And in return, you’ll hand over Mr. Clean,” Linderman said.

The words caught Crutch by surprise. He would never give up Mr. Clean, or for that matter, any other serial killer he’d been in contact with.

“Who?” Crutch asked.

“Mr. Clean, the serial killer you’re talking to in Fort Lauderdale.”

“Never heard of him.”

“Don’t play that game with me. I saw the index cards in your cell. You figured out who Mr. Clean is, and made contact with him. You’ve got some sick deal with him that involves abducting violent teenage boys. Mr. Clean called you right before he abducted Wayne Ladd two days ago. You’re in cahoots with him.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Crutch said.

“You’re lying,” the FBI agent said, his voice rising. “You’ve been using the computers in the records department to go onto the Internet, and download information about killing and torture and all sorts of sick stuff. You’ve been doing research, putting together a special program for serial killers, haven’t you?”

Crutch rocked back in his chair. The momentum had shifted. Linderman was now on the attack, and doing his best to break him down.

Kill him, said the voice inside his head.

Crutch considered it. Crutch was stronger than people realized, his body toned from hundreds of push-ups he did every day in the privacy of his cell. But Linderman was also fit, and was a killer.

An even match, Crutch thought. Those were never good.

“You have a very active imagination,” Crutch replied.

Linderman took a step forward, halving the distance between them. The gesture was not lost on Crutch. The FBI agent was not afraid of him.

“Mr. Clean screwed up,” Linderman said. “A witness overheard his conversation with you. Mr. Clean said, “I found a boy for The Program.’ I didn’t understand what that meant until I came up here. You’ve written something that will turn boys into monsters, and Mr. Clean is helping you try it out. The first two teenagers he abducted didn’t work out, so he killed them. I guess you’re hoping the third boy is the charm.”

Linderman was smarter than he’d thought. He’d taken all the pieces of the puzzle, and put them together without making a single mistake. He even knew about The Program.

Kill him, said the voice.

Crutch reined in the murderous impulse. He had one last card hidden up his sleeve. He could still save himself if he played that card right.

“I will not turn over Mr. Clean, or for that matter, anyone else,” Crutch said. “But I will give you something much more valuable, if you leave me alone.”

“What’s that?” Linderman replied.

“Your daughter.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“I never kid.”

“Do you have any idea how many prisoners in Florida have reached out to me, and offered information about Danni? Dozens. I didn’t cut any deals with them, and I won’t cut any deals with you. This conversation is over.”

Linderman moved for the door, never taking his eyes off Crutch.

“But this information is different,” Crutch said.

“Right,” he said.

“Please listen to what I have to say.”

Linderman reached for the door, then stopped. Crutch smiled cruelly. He had the FBI agent right where he wanted him. He slapped his hands on his thighs like someone keeping time at a square dance, his eyes dancing in his head.

“Your daughter is still alive,” Crutch said.

Chapter 29

The words hit Linderman hard.

Long ago, he had accepted that Danni was probably dead. As an FBI agent, he knew the odds of her being alive were slim at best. More than likely, she’d been killed within a few hours of being abducted, her body stashed in some hidden place that would elude the police and other searchers for years to come.

But deep down he’d held out hope that Danni was still alive. It was the hope that every parent of a missing child kept burning in their hearts. Somehow, their son or daughter had managed to beat the odds, and not be killed by their abductor.

And now Crutch was telling him that his prayers had been answered, and Danni had not perished. It was not the messenger he would have wanted, but he was not going to turn it away. He released his hand from the door knob.

“Keep talking,” Linderman said.

“Step back into the room if you want to hear more,” Crutch said.

“Don’t tell me what to do.”

“Don’t you want to know?”

Of course Linderman wanted to know. It was the only thing on this earth that he truly cared about. But he would not take orders from a monster. He crossed his arms in front of his chest and waited.

“I’m listening,” Linderman said.

“I’m not lying, if that’s what you’re thinking,” Crutch said.

“It would be a stupid lie to tell.”

“Well put. Before I continue, I need to know if we have a deal or not.”

“I need to hear more.”

“Very well. To be honest, it was why I thought you came to the prison. I knew Simon Skell very well.”

“And Skell told you about Danni.”

“Skell talked about all his victims. He was a braggart. Skell approached your daughter in the parking lot of her college dormitory. He had a plaster cast on his arm — Ted Bundy’s old trick to draw sympathy — and claimed he was lost. Your daughter had been out for a morning run, and was out of breath. She turned to show him how to find the place he was looking for, and Skell banged her over the head with his cast, and threw her into the trunk of his car. It was early morning; no one saw a thing. Skell said that your daughter dropped her keys, and he regretted not picking them up.”

Linderman let out a deep breath. Crutch was playing him like a fiddle. Danni’s keys had been found by the Miami police in the parking area of her dorm. It was one of several pieces of information regarding her disappearance which had never been released to the public.

“Keep talking,” Linderman said.

“Your daughter was Skell’s slave for several weeks. She somehow managed to weasel her way into Skell’s heart. Perhaps being the daughter of a famous FBI agent gave her training to deal with such a situation — yes?”

Linderman lowered his arms, his hands clenched into fists.

“Skell also told me that your daughter was a wonderful cook,” Crutch said. “Her baked goods were particularly delicious.”

Linderman found himself nodding. Danni had learned to cook from his wife, and had once considered going to culinary school and making it her profession.

“Go on,” he said.

“Skell admired your daughter’s moxie, and decided not to kill her. He told me she was the only victim he’d spared.”

“What did he do with her?”

“He found a home for her. One where she could put her talents to use.”

“Skell gave my daughter away?”

“He sold her. There are people in the world who desire slaves. Skell found one of these people in Florida, and worked out a deal. The buyer was a rich foreigner who wanted a pretty young woman to cook and clean for him. Skell even told Danni the terms.”

“What terms?”

“You know, the arrangement. If Danni did certain things for her new owner, he would take care of her. If not, she would perish.”

“Did my daughter agree to these terms?”

“According to Skell, yes.”

“And you know who this person is.”

“Yes, I do.”

It was the kind of thing that Linderman could see his daughter doing. He decided that Crutch was telling him the truth.

“Tell me how you want to work this,” Linderman said.

“Is that a yes?”

“I want to hear the details first.”

“The devil is in the details, yes?”

“Don’t push it.”

Crutch dropped his voice to a confessional whisper. “This is what I want from you. First, you must leave me alone. No more intrusions into my world or surprise visits to the prison. You will not write a report about what I did, or talk about what happened here to anyone. As far as you’re concerned, I no longer exist. Understood?”

“Keep talking.”

“Second, you will not come to my parole hearing next year, and say unpleasant things about me. I have done my time, and want to be released.”

“Is that it?”

“There’s more. You will also contact that rotten prick Robert Kessler, and instruct him to stay away from the parole hearing as well.”

“What about Warden Jenkins? I can’t control what he says.”

“Jenkins won’t come to the hearing on his own. He’s more concerned about keeping his cushy job than what happens to me. Do you think he wants me telling the parole board that there were drug dealers inside Starke conducting business over cell phones? My bases are covered with Jenkins. It’s the FBI that I’m worried about.”

“When do I get the name?” Linderman asked.

“The moment I’m paroled, I will pick up the phone and call you, and tell you the name of the rich foreigner who’s keeping your precious daughter. Your search will be over. You will be free, just like I’ll be free. Now, do we have a deal?”

Linderman regarded Crutch with an almost clinical detachment. This was evil in its purest form, the apple being offered filled with poisonous worms. He would be selling his soul in order to find out what had happened to the person he loved. And, he’d be betraying the bureau and all the people he’d worked with.

The price was too much. He shook his head.

“No?” Crutch acted astonished.

“Never,” Linderman said.

“But this is Danni…”

“I’ll find her some other way. Thanks for the tips.”

Crutch went stiff in his chair. Linderman sensed that he was about to be attacked. Walking backward, he reached behind his back and grabbed the door knob, not taking his eyes off Crutch for a second. The serial killer shot him a murderous look.

“You’ll let your daughter suffer?” Crutch asked.

“Shut up,” Linderman said.

“I failed to mention something about her arrangement. Perhaps this will change your mind. During the day, Danni cooks and cleans. At night, she becomes a fuck-doll.”

“A what?”

“A sex slave. You know what that is, don’t you?”

“Yes,” he said through clenched teeth.

“Your daughter fucked Skell, and she is also fucking this rich foreigner. You don’t want that to keep going on, do you?”

It was Linderman’s worst nightmare. Six years of rage boiled to the surface, and he felt the walls of the chaplain’s study close around him, the room’s furniture shifting as if on quicksand. He fixed his gaze on the painting of the Virgin Mary, hoping her divine grace would give him ballast. Her patient smile had turned into a hideous grin.

The next thing he knew, his hands were around Crutch’s throat, squeezing so hard that the inmate’s eyeballs popped out of his head like a cartoon character. Lifting Crutch out of his chair, he snapped his head against the desk, his blood flying across the room in a glorious splash of red. He did not stop until the corpse was mangled beyond recognition.

“Deal, or no deal?” Crutch asked.

Linderman blinked. Crutch was back in his chair, looking no worse for wear. Nothing had happened. His mind was playing tricks on him like it had earlier in the day. His killing Crutch had been an hallucination.

Only Linderman knew that this time was different. He had seen the blackness that had invaded his soul, and would allow him to kill a man with his bare hands.

He’d fallen into the abyss.

Chapter 30

Grabbing the knob, Linderman jerked the door open.

“Get this son-of-a-bitch out of here,” he said.

The pair of guards rushed into the study. Within seconds, they had Crutch out of his chair, and were hustling him out the door. Linderman avoided making eye contact with Crutch as he flew past.

“Skell told me how lovely her snatch was,” Crutch called over his shoulder.

A guard smacked Crutch in the back of the head.

“Shut your filthy mouth,” the guard warned.

Jenkins was waiting in the hall with a concerned look on his face. Linderman left the chapel with the warden glued to his side. He was trying to make sense of what had happened. The images of him killing Crutch had been too real.

“What did he want?” Jenkins asked.

“He tried to blackmail me,” Linderman said.

“With what?”

“My daughter was abducted six years ago by Simon Skell. Crutch knows what happened to her. He offered to give me the information at a later date if I backed off.”

“I didn’t know that about your daughter. I’m sorry. What did you tell him?”

Linderman stopped and gave Jenkins a look that left no doubt in the warden’s mind what his response had been.

“Sorry, I wasn’t thinking,” Jenkins said.

They walked to the visitor’s parking lot. The sun was blinding, and Linderman squinted to find his rental among the vast landscape of cars.

“If you don’t mind my asking, what are you going to do?”

“I’m going to nail the bastard,” Linderman said.

“How? You said he hadn’t broken any laws.”

“There are twenty-four murders that the FBI believes Crutch is responsible for. I should be able to link at least one of them to him. Once I do, I’ll come back here, and put the screws to him. That should make him talk.”

“Is there anything I can do?” Jenkins asked.

The offer was sincere. Linderman didn’t believe what Crutch had said about Jenkins not having a spine. If anything, Jenkins had impressed him as someone who followed the law, no matter where it took him.

“Yes, there is. You can make Crutch’s life living hell. If he starts feeling the pressure, he might start talking.”

“How would you suggest I do that?” Jenkins asked.

“Ostracize him. Let the other inmates know what kind of animal he is. That sort of thing.”

“I can do that,” Jenkins said.

They shook hands. Linderman had a feeling he’d be seeing Jenkins soon.

Linderman drove into the town of Starke. He turned on the radio, and listened to country music while replaying what had happened in the chaplain’s study.

He hadn’t blacked out or fainted. He’d had an episode in which his imagination had eclipsed the rational part of his brain. His fantasy of killing Crutch had seemed real because to his brain it was real.

Murderous fantasies were a topic that he was familiar with. They were what drove serial killers to seek out their victims, and snuff out their lives. They started when a serial killer was young, and grew as the killer’s anger with society grew. At some point during the process, the fantasy became more real than reality.

He thought of Ed Kemper, a highly intelligent giant who’d killed his grandparents when he was fourteen, then killed eight more women after being released from prison. He’d once interviewed Kemper in a room filled with guards, knowing Kemper’s stated desire to screw the head off an FBI agent, and leave it on a table.

“Tell me about your fantasies,” he’d said.

“I sorry to sound so cold about this,” Kemper had apologized, “but what I needed to have was a particular experience with a person, and to possess them in a way that I wanted to. I had to evict them from their human bodies.”

“Could the fantasy have worked without evicting them?” he’d asked.

“I don’t see how that’s possible,” Kemper had stated.

Linderman thought back to his own murderous fantasy. Strangling Crutch had been the starting point, not the end. He’d needed to evict Crutch from his body before his fantasy of smashing his head against the desk could begin. It disturbed him to think that his fantasy had matched someone like Kemper.

Linderman knew what he had to do. Check himself into a hospital and get help. He was a danger to himself and the people around him. His mind was poisoned.

Only going into a hospital would mean quitting the case, and he wasn’t going to do that. People were depending on him, and he could not let them down. He owed it to them, and to himself, to see the case through.

He made a promise to himself. He would seek medical treatment once the investigation was finished. By staying focused on his work, he could get through this. His dedication to his job had saved him from going crazy during the past six years, and it would save him now.

Soon he was sitting in the restaurant where he’d eaten breakfast. His table was near the electric chair behind the velvet cord. A little boy was getting his picture taken in the chair, his father snapping endless photos. It seemed ghoulish, and he reminded himself that the chair was a spare from the prison, and had never been used.

A big-haired waitress swooped down on his table. He let himself be talked into the lunch special. When she was gone, he booted up his laptop, and opened a folder containing Crutch’s index cards. He found the card devoted to Killer X, and studied it.

He had to give Crutch credit. He’d figured out who Killer X was by studying his crimes, besting the profilers at Quantico. He needed to fix that. If Crutch could figure out the puzzle, so could he.

He started by copying what Crutch had written on a separate sheet of paper. It was an unusual exercise, designed to make the writer feel the words as they came off the pen. He wrote slowly, pausing to stare after each line .

Name: Killer X

Age:40-50

Characteristics:Handsome, soft-spoken, a person women

are not initially afraid of.

Resides: South Florida

# of years killing:25+

Upbringing:Did not know father, barely knew mother.

Raised by sibling or grandparent. May have

done time in prison at a young age, which led

to a lifelong fear of being incarcerated.

Fetishes:Bodybuilding, nice clothes, grooming

products (aftershave, cologne, cleansers)

Type of victim:Female prostitutes

Victims’ characteristics:Street walker (no call services)

20-30 years old

No kids or family (not missed)

Raped

Throat slit

Last seen at night

Black or Hispanic, but will kill a

white girl in a pinch.

Body found near hwy or public road

Notes:Can’t get enough of his victims. Just like

SOS. Should be easy to find.

Linderman chewed on the end of his pen. The last three lines were already haunting him. What did Crutch mean, can’t get enough of his victims? And who was SOS?

His lunch came. He’d lost his appetite, and pushed the plate aside.

He studied the Crutch’s notes until his eyes turned blurry. The clue to Killer X’s identity was staring him right in the face, yet he couldn’t identify it. Crutch had claimed that he could look at the photograph of a dead person, and know what their killer had been thinking when he’d committed the crime. Perhaps he needed to look at the victims’ autopsy photos, and see if anything popped out.

Then he had a thought. This wasn’t his case, it was Rachel’s. She had made Mr. Clean right from the start, and was tuned into him. Vick needed to have a crack at this, and see what she could come up with. He kicked himself for not thinking of her sooner.

It was not a phone call he wanted to make inside the restaurant. He found his waitress on the other side of the room, and mimed signing a check. She mouthed that she’d be right over.

He leaned back in his chair to wait. The morning’s events had added to his exhaustion, and he rubbed his eyes and smothered a yawn.

His gaze fell on the electric chair. The velvet rope was gone, the chair occupied by a man wearing an orange prison uniform, his arms and legs tied down. It was Crutch. His head had been shaved, and strapped beneath his chin was a leather restraining device to stop him from screaming when the juice was thrown. Behind the chair stood a man with his hand on a switch, his face masked by shadows.

The switch was thrown, and Crutch started to convulse. Smoke came off the top of his head, and blood poured down his nose. The man in the suit lifted the switch, and Crutch fell limp in the chair. He had ridden the lightening into the hereafter.

The executioner stepped out of the shadows. Linderman’s heart skipped a beat. He was looking at himself. He was the executioner.

“Something wrong?” the waitress asked, slapping the check down.

He snapped back to reality. The electric chair was empty, the velvet rope back in place. Nothing had happened.

“No,” he managed to say.

“You’re looking mighty pale. The food didn’t upset you, did it?”

“Food was fine.”

“You hardly touched a thing. Sure you don’t want me to send it back? It’s no problem.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

Linderman settled his bill and went outside. He sat for a while in his rental, and tried to get his wits about him. Ten minutes later, he called Vick.

Chapter 31

Fucking DuCharme.

He hadn’t been satisfied to appear on local TV, and smear Vick’s reputation. He’d gone the extra mile, and was doing interviews with the talking heads on CNN. Tonight at eight, he’d be chatting with Nancy Grace. He was milking this for all it was worth.

Vick sat in her bathrobe and stared at the TV in her apartment in downtown Miami. Her unit was on the twelfth floor of a towering building built during the real estate craze. Great views, everything brand spanking new, and only a handful of renters. There had been break-ins, with people robbed at gunpoint. She kept a gun in every room.

The commercial break was over, and DuCharme was back. He had to know the world of trouble that Vick was in, yet didn’t seem to care. She’d been placed on paid leave along with the other members of her team from last night’s botched sting. There would be an internal review, plus a hearing where she’d have to face a panel and explain why things had gone so terribly wrong. She’d be lucky to keep her job. Even if she did stay, her career would never be the same.

DuCharme was speaking. She hit the Volume button on the remote.

“The FBI did not handle this right,” the detective said.

“In your opinion, what did the FBI do that was wrong?” the CNN interviewer asked.

“The agent in charge, Rachel Vick, should not have handled the case,” DuCharme replied. “She was infatuated with the kidnaping victim.”

“Did this cloud her judgement?” the interviewer asked.

“Yes, absolutely.”

A photograph of Wayne Ladd appeared on the screen. Wayne was at the beach with his friends, and had his shirt off. He was built like a gymnast, without an ounce of fat, and rock hard abs. It was hard not to be infatuated with him, Vick thought.

DuCharme returned to the screen.

“Will you be taking over the case now that Special Agent Vick has been suspended?” the interviewer asked.

Vick grabbed her slipper off her foot and threw it at the screen. “I wasn’t suspended you fucking morons!”

“Yes,” DuCharme said. “The case is now solely mine.”

“Good luck,” the interviewer said.

Vick stormed into her kitchen. Opening the cabinet, she took out a pile of dinner plates, and began throwing them onto the floor. Her chest was heaving and her heart was racing a hundred miles an hour. She didn’t need a crystal ball to see what was going to happen next. DuCharme would royally screw up the investigation, and Wayne Ladd would end up dead, just like Mr. Clean’s previous victims.

The phone rang. She threw last plate onto the floor and answered it.

“Hello,” she said breathlessly.

“Rachel? This is Ken. You okay?”

“Just great. How about you?”

“It’s been a rough morning. I have a new lead on Mr. Clean for you.”

“I’m off the case. Sitting at home watching myself get crucified on TV.”

“Turn off the TV and get back to work,” Linderman said.

“But I’m off the case.”

“No, you’re not. We’re going to crack this, Rachel.”

“We are?”

“Yes. Take this information I’m about to give you, and figure out who Mr. Clean is. Crutch did, and he’s sitting in a prison.”

“But I’m on leave. I could get fired.”

“No one’s going to fire you. I’ll make sure of that. Crack this puzzle, and you’ll be a hero. There are second acts in the FBI.”

Vick crossed the kitchen hearing the broken plates crack beneath her slippers. She sat down at the breakfast nook and ran her hand through her hair. Had Linderman been standing in the kitchen, she would have thrown her arms around him, and kissed him.

“What’s the information?” she asked.

“In Crutch’s cell were index cards he used to profile fifteen active serial killers. One of them was Mr. Clean. At the bottom of the card he wrote. “Can’t get enough of his victims. Just like SOS’. That led Crutch to figuring out who Mr. Clean was, and contacting him.”

“Was SOS in caps?” Vick asked.

“Yes, matter of fact.”

“Son of Sam.”

She heard Linderman’s gasp.

“Are you sure?” he asked.

“Positive. David Berkowitz, aka Son of Sam, wrote a number of letters to a New York Post columnist named Jimmy Breslin. He signed the later letters SOS. I wrote a paper about Berkowitz as part of my graduate thesis on serial killers.”

“Why would Crutch write “Just like SOS’ on the cards?”

“There could be a number of reasons. Berkowitz was an arsonist, and set over a thousand fires in Brooklyn and the Bronx. He carried on a lengthy correspondence with the media until his arrest. He also believed his dog was the devil, and was telling him to kill people. His dog’s name was Sam, so he called himself Son of Sam. Crutch must have seen something in Mr. Clean’s crimes that was just like Son of Sam.”

“That’s brilliant, Rachel.”

“Thank you. If we can examine Mr. Clean’s crimes, we should be able to find the link to Son of Sam.”

“I’ve already done that. Got a pencil?”

Vick grabbed a pad and pencil from the shelf next to the nook.

“Ready,” she said.

“Mr. Clean’s victims were female prostitutes between the ages of twenty and thirty. They were raped, then had their throats slit. Their bodies were dumped near public roads or highways. Most of them were Latino or black, but a few were white. None used call services. All of the victims were last seen at night.”

Vick wrote in large, block letters on the notepad. Finished, she placed her pencil down, and stared at the list. “Huh,” she said.

“What’s wrong?” Linderman asked.

“I’m not seeing any connection to Son of Sam in this list.”

“Go through it with me.”

“All right. Berkowitz killed young couples sitting in cars, not prostitutes. He used a gun, never a knife. He left his victims in their cars, and never attempted to move their bodies. He often returned to the scene of his killings, and masturbated where the cars had been parked. None of those things resemble what you just told me about Mr. Clean.”

There was a pause as Linderman digested what she’d just said.

“There has to be a link,” he said.

Another pause, this time with Vick doing the thinking.

“I’ve got an idea,” she said. “Berkowitz kept a diary which the police discovered after he was arrested. It was filled with information about what he was thinking at the time of his crimes. I have a transcript on my laptop that I referred to while writing my thesis. I’ll reread it, and try to make a connection to Mr. Clean.”

“I’m counting on you, Rachel. We need to crack this,” Linderman said.

“I’ll do my best. Are you coming back to South Florida?”

“Not yet. I’m going to take another stab at getting Crutch to tell me what he knows. I’m going to break this little bastard.”

Linderman’s ability to extract information from witnesses and suspects was extraordinary, and Vick would have liked to have seen him work over Crutch.

“Good luck,” she said.

“Thanks. I’m going to need some.”

She cleaned up the kitchen floor and took a hot shower. She emerged from the bathroom feeling ready to take on the challenge Linderman had given her.

Every crime had a solution. It came down to knowing what you were looking for, and where to look for it. Vick sat at her dining room table with her laptop and began the tedious process of reading David Berkowitz’s diary.

The transcript was several hundred pages long. Many of the early entries were trivial, and talked about Berkowitz’s dreary, day-to-day existence. The product of an illicit love affair, he’d been raised by foster parents, a situation that had gone well until his foster mother had unexpectedly died. His relationship with his foster father had deteriorated, and he’d begun to fantasize about connecting with his real family, and starting his life anew. He’d finally gotten his wish, only to have his mother and sister reject him. His slide into madness had started soon after that.

A hundred pages into the transcript, the neighbor’s dog started barking orders to Berkowitz, telling him to kill. Berkowitz would later claim that the dog was possessed by a three thousand year old demon. Prison psychiatrists believed that Berkowitz had made up the story to avoid the death chamber. Others were not so sure.

Vick decided to take a break.

She ate a sandwich at the kitchen sink, a habit from living alone. Through the window, she stared at the blight of downtown Miami. The city had been filled with promise when she’d moved in, a happening place with people her age looking for new experiences. The Great Recession had changed that. Construction had come to a screeching halt, and thousands had defaulted on their loans and rent. Downtown was now filled with empty shells of buildings, many of which were occupied by squatters, their campfires burning brightly at night in the empty floors.

Her apartment buzzer rang. The only other person on her floor was a chatty eighty-year-old widow named Mrs. Rosenberg. Mrs. Rosenberg was rarely home during the day, and Vick put down her sandwich and removed a loaded Sig Sauer from the kitchen drawer.

She went to the front door and looked through the peephole. Mrs. Rosenberg stood outside with a sweet smile on her face. Again the buzzer rang.

“Coming,” Vick said.

She stuck the Sig behind her back, and opened the door.

“Hey, Mrs. Rosenberg, how are you?” she asked.

“I’m splendid, Rachel,” her neighbor said. “I was in the lobby waiting for my cab, and this nice man asked me to let him in. He said he knew you, so of course I did.”

Mrs. Rosenberg giggled, no doubt thinking she was playing cupid. Vick stuck her head out, and saw the nice man standing in the hall, his eyes downcast.

It was fucking DuCharme.

Chapter 32

Mrs. Rosenberg giggled into her hand. “Well, I suppose I must be going. I’m sure you two young people have lots of talk about.”

“We certainly do,” Vick said. “Would you like Roger to escort you downstairs?”

“No, I need to get something from my apartment. Thank you, anyway.”

DuCharme walked Mrs. Rosenberg to her door across the hallway. When the detective returned to Vick’s door, she showed him the Sig.

“Is that a gun, or are you just happy to see me?” DuCharme asked.

“Go fuck yourself,” Vick replied.

“I need to talk to you.”

“Send me an email. And don’t ever come into this apartment house unannounced again.”

DuCharme let out a deep, exaggerated breath. He was not the same man she’d seen on CNN earlier that day. His necktie was undone, the knot hanging halfway down his shirt like a hangman’s knot, his eyes watery and red. His silk sports jacket, so perfect for the television cameras, had not held up in the South Florida humidity, and had more creases than if he’d rolled down a hill.

“I’m sorry for everything I said. I was wrong,” the detective said.

Vick knew how well men lied. She held her ground.

“Go away.”

DuCharme reached into his jacket and removed several sheets of paper which were paper-clipped together. Vick spied the heading. It was a Broward Sheriff’s Department initial crime scene report.

“You need to see this, Rachel.”

“Piss off.”

“Come on, hear me out.”

“Give me one good reason why I should.”

“There’s been another killing.”

The sound of someone sneezing snapped both their heads. The door to Mrs. Rosenberg’s apartment creaked shut. Vick’s nosy neighbor was eavesdropping on their conversation.

“For the love of Christ, get your ass in here,” Vick said.

DuCharme shuffled into her apartment. She closed the door behind him and threw the deadbolt.

“Why the Sig?” he asked.

“The building’s had a lot of break-ins. I keep a loaded gun in every room.”

“It must be like living in Baghdad.”

“I’m not in the mood for small talk, Roger. Tell me what you have to say before I throw you out the flipping window.”

“I need a drink of water,” he said.

“Choking on your own words?”

“Please.”

She led him into the kitchen. He took a chair without being asked. His body language said that he’d just come from getting his ass chewed out. Cops were not supposed to slam other cops. His one-man publicity crusade had backfired on him. Poor Roger.

Vick set a glass of water down in front of him. She positioned herself on the other side of the room and leaned against the counter. She put the Sig down next to her.

“Tell me what happened,” she said.

DuCharme drank the water and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “This morning a corpse was found on the roof of the parking garage across from the Broward Library. The head had been cut off. The corpse had a hat, which had a slip of paper stuck in the brim. The slip had the words Mr. Clean written on it.

“The coroner’s office examined the body. They’ve put the time of death at around the same time you and I were inside the library. Mr. Clean was watching us from the parking garage, and then killed someone and left him for us to see.”

“Any idea who the victim is?”

“They think he was a vagrant. Now, here’s the bad part. A reporter over at Fox News is all over the story, some pesky woman named Debbie Bodden. Bodden has made the connection between this killing, the shooting last night, and Wayne Ladd’s abduction. Fox was going to run a story on their noon news show saying that Mr. Clean was running amuck in Fort Lauderdale, but my boss got the station manager to put a lid on it.”

“How much time did he buy?”

“A day.”

Media shit storms were great at ruining criminal investigations, especially when the criminal was still at large. The clock was ticking.

“What do you want from me?” Vick asked.

“Help us find this guy. Please.”

“Who’s us? You?”

“Yeah. Moody wants me to stay involved in the investigation, and make amends.”

Vick laughed silently under her breath. No apology had been offered, just a tender pulling at her heart strings to stop a cold-blooded killer from claiming the life of another victim. She refilled DuCharme’s empty glass and threw the water in his face.

“Hey..!”

“That’s for going on television and ruining my reputation,” she said.

“I said I was sorry.”

“Fuck your sorry.”

“I’m going to issue an apology to the media once this is over, Rachel.”

“It’s too late for that. The damage is done. For the rest of my life, people will be able to Google my name, or go onto YouTube, and read or hear the things you said about me, none of which had an ounce of truth. You soiled me, Roger.”

Next to where DuCharme sat was a napkin dispenser. He pulled out several, which he used to dry his dripping wet face.

“You know, you’re really pretty when you’re angry,” he said.

The glass was still in Vick’s hand. Growing up with three older brothers had its advantages. For one thing, no one would ever accuse her of throwing like a girl.

She threw the glass at DuCharme with all her might. It winged the top of his head before hitting the wall and shattering.

She walked out of the kitchen, ignoring his plea for mercy.

Vick went to her computer room, a small space off her bedroom with no windows. Meant to be a closet, she’d stripped the shelving units off the walls, and replaced the cheap carpet with a piece more to her liking. She’d hung Clyde Butcher prints on the walls and stuck her computer table in the corner. PC, HP printer, and scanner, it was the piece of furniture she spent the most time with when in her apartment.

Everything stored in her laptop was also stored on her PC’s hard drive. She pulled up the transcript of Berkowitz’s diary and punched in a command. Soon pages were spitting out of her printer. When the print job was done, she returned to the kitchen.

To his credit, DuCharme had cleaned up the broken glass, and was washing his hands in the sink. She dropped the pages on the counter.

“You really want to find Mr. Clean?” she asked.

DuCharme dried his hands on a towel and nodded. His mouth had gotten him in more trouble than anything he’d ever done. Not speaking was a wise choice.

“Mr. Clean has been linked to another serial killer named Son of Sam who terrorized New York City back in the 1970s. This is a transcript of Son of Sam’s diary. Look through it, and see if anything about Son of Sam reminds you of Mr. Clean.”

DuCharme picked up the transcript and took a seat. He read with his head hanging over the table and his eyes a foot from the text. He needed reading glasses, but was too vain to accept it. Still, it was a fresh pair of eyes, and sometimes that was what was needed to bust an investigation wide open.

“We learned what Mr. Clean’s motivation is for kidnaping the boys,” Vick said.

He looked up, his face dead serious.

“He’s schooling an apprentice,” she said.

“You can’t be serious,” DuCharme muttered.

“It fits his profile. Mr. Clean is vain. Most vain people envision someone following in their footsteps. That’s why he chose Wayne Ladd.”

“Guess he made a good choice.”

Vick liked DuCharme better with his mouth shut, and walked out of the kitchen.

Chapter 33

Wayne Ladd did not know what time it was, what day it was, where he was. All he knew was that he’d been subjected to one hundred of the worst porno flicks ever made, and was sick of seeing women tortured and hearing them scream. It was getting old.

Besides, sex wasn’t like that. Sex was like Amber, soft and sweet and thrilling to the touch. Sex was holding and kissing and talking for a long time afterward about the things that mattered in your life. Sex was about the way things could be if you tried.

But Wayne had played along with the big Cuban. He’d figured out the game as best he could. So long as he got an erection for the movies, the big Cuban would tell him what a good boy he was, and treat him to a good meal. Every game had a scorecard, and this one wasn’t any different. Wayne wasn’t dead yet, which put him ahead.

Wayne heard the deadbolt on the door being thrown. The big Cuban entered wearing sweat pants and no shirt. He undid the leather straps holding Wayne to his chair while looking his victim in the eye. Wayne pretended not to be afraid.

“What’s that smell?” Wayne asked.

“Breakfast,” the big Cuban said. “Are you hungry?”

“Starving.”

The big Cuban went to the door and motioned for him to follow. Wayne rose on unsteady legs. Except for going to the bathroom every few hours, he’d been strapped into the chair, and his legs had turned to jelly.

“Go in front of me,” the big Cuban said.

Wayne walked to the front of the house. The living and dining rooms were combined, with a kitchen off to the side. Steel hurricane shutters covered the windows, and the front door had three different locks. Escaping seemed out of the question.

“What are you cooking?” Wayne asked.

“Eggs, sausage and home fries,” the big Cuban said.

“Good. Watching all that porno made me hungry.”

Wayne had always had the knack of getting adults to like him. The big Cuban offered the faintest of smiles. He put his hand on Wayne’s shoulder, and left it there.

“The movies were good, yes?”

“Couldn’t get enough of them,” Wayne said. “That’s some collection you’ve got. How big is it?”

“I have thousands of films. One day I will let you pick out some to watch.”

Wayne had a feeling the collection didn’t include any South Park or remakes of Batman. The big Cuban went into the kitchen and he followed him. It was small and spotlessly clean. His mother could definitely take some lessons from this guy.

A knife sat on a cutting board. The big Cuban used it to chop an onion, which he added to the eggs he was scrambling in a frying pan on the stove. Wayne didn’t see any other knives or sharp objects in the kitchen that could be used as weapons. He didn’t think that was a coincidence. The big Cuban was testing him.

“What’s your name, anyway?”

The big Cuban kept chopping. “Renny.”

“Can I call you that?”

“That would be fine.”

Wayne leaned against the counter and watched Renny make breakfast. The guy was good with his hands, the knife a blur as the onion got turned into tiny pieces. Renny added pepper and some spices and turned the heat up on the eggs. He pulled a wooden spoon out of a jar on the counter, and handed it to Wayne.

“Stir them while I prepare the sausage,” his captor said.

Wayne stirred the eggs while Renny tore the plastic off a package of sausage. The teenager asked himself a simple question. If Renny turned around or got distracted, could he grab the knife from the cutting board, and stab him with it? Renny was big and strong, but all that muscle wouldn’t stop a sharp blade. One good plunge into the heart was all it was going to take. If the knife was sharp enough, the plunge could come from the front or back, and end Renny’s life. The hard part would be the aftermath. Watching his mother’s boyfriend die had ripped him apart, the memory burned into his brain. But he’d kill Renny if the chance presented himself. It was his only ticket out of here.

Soon their breakfast was ready. Renny asked Wayne what he wanted to drink.

“You got any OJ?” Wayne asked.

“Yes. It’s in the refrigerator. Help yourself.”

“You want some?”

“That would be good.”

Renny picked up their plates of food, and moved toward the dining room table, his back to Wayne. Seeing his chance, Wayne moved next to the counter where Renny had prepared the food. The knife was no longer there. He hadn’t seen Renny put it away, and wondered if he’d stuck it in his pocket.

“What are you looking for?” his captor asked.

The guy had eyes in the back of his head, Wayne thought.

“Some glasses for the juice,” Wayne said, not missing a beat.

“The glasses are in the cupboard next to the refrigerator.”

Wayne found two plastic glasses and put them on the counter. Then he pulled open the refrigerator door and searched for the OJ. His eyes fell upon the bowling-ball sized object sitting on the front shelf. The object was wrapped in saran wrap and looked like a rotting melon with hair growing on it. Without thinking, he took it out for a closer look.

Then, he freaked. It was the head of a small black man.

Wayne tried to yell but no sound came out of his mouth. The dead man’s pink tongue was sticking out of his mouth and pressed against his face. One of his eyes was open, and was staring at Wayne. Wayne told himself it was all a horrible dream.

“I see you found my friend,” Renny said.

Renny reached around Wayne and removed a carton of OJ from the back of the shelf. The head was put back and the refrigerator door closed.

“Come and eat,” Renny said, pouring two glasses of OJ.

Wayne sat down at the dining room table. The room was spinning and he felt ready to pass out. He hadn’t gone to hell. Hell had come to him.

The smell of the food on his plate snapped him awake. He plunged his fork into the runny eggs and pretended to eat. He could feel Renny’s eyes burning a hole into his soul.

“He was a bad man. He was going to hurt me,” Renny said.

“I figured as much,” Wayne said.

“There are times when it’s necessary to kill. Do you agree?”

“I guess.”

“Like your mother’s boyfriend. Don’t you think he deserved to die, Wayne?”

Wayne speared a piece of sausage on his fork. It looked as appetizing as road kill. The day he’d pulled the knife out of his mother’s boyfriend’s heart, he’d known his life would be changed, but he’d never expected anything like this.

“Yeah, he deserved it,” the teenager said.

“Would you bring him back, if you could?”

“No. Never.”

“I didn’t think so,” his captor said.

Wayne forced the food down. He had only one option, and that was to play along with Renny, and hope for the best. Otherwise, he’d end up in the refrigerator next to the cream cheese. It would have been funny, if it hadn’t been so sick.

When they were finished eating, he and Renny sat on the couch in the living room, and watched a porno movie on the big screen TV. This one was sicker than the others, and showed a three-hundred pound farmer beating up his two daughters while having sex with them. Not your usual family picture, Wayne thought.

Halfway through the film, Renny put his arm behind Wayne, and rested his hand on Wayne’s shoulder. The teenager wanted to scream, but sucked up his fear instead. He thought of the Big Brother he’d had growing up. The guy had been a dork, but he’d still taken Wayne to ball games and the movies. He found himself missing those times.

The film ended. There were no credits, just a blank screen.

“Did you like that one?” Renny asked.

“The cinematography was outstanding,” Wayne said.

His captor laughed. Then, he slapped Wayne on the leg.

“I think you are ready for the next phase of the Program,” Renny said.

Wayne didn’t like the sounds of that. He turned sideways on the couch.

“What are you talking about” the teenager asked.

“I am going to find you a woman tonight. One you can call your very own.”

Oh, no, Wayne thought.

Chapter 34

The FBI’s new building in Jacksonville reeked of fresh paint and new carpet. Like so much of Florida, the surrounding industrial park was also new, and housed dozens of national companies whose names were instantly familiar.

Linderman sat in an empty office flooded with mid-afternoon sunlight. He’d called Vaughn Wood an hour before, and asked for help. Wood had pulled through, and was now assembling his best field agents in the conference room a few doors down.

The coffee he’d bought from the vending machine in the employee cafeteria tasted bitter. It was his fifth cup of the day, and he felt sharp and alert. His mind had stopped playing tricks on him, which he told himself was a good sign.

His cell phone vibrated. Muriel calling.

“Hi,” he answered.

“I was starting to worry about you,” his wife said.

They had a simple pact. When he was on the road, he called his wife twice a day. He hadn’t done that since coming to Jacksonville. He was slipping in more than one area.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“Is everything all right? You sound tired and out of sorts.”

“It’s been a long couple of days.”

“You should have called. I was afraid something had happened.”

“I’m sorry,” he said again, hearing the agitation in his voice.

“When are you coming home? Or don’t you know.”

“Soon. A few days at most.”

The door to the office opened halfway, and Wood stuck his head in.

“Ready when you are,” Wood said.

Linderman cupped his hand over his cell phone. “I’ll be right there.”

“Take your time.”

Wood shut the door. Linderman took his hand away from the phone. He was going to have to eventually tell Muriel what he’d learned. In person was always better, but waiting was never good. She was his partner, and needed to know what he knew.

“I need to tell you something,” he said. “This morning, I had a conversation with an inmate at Starke prison who knows what happened to our daughter.”

“Oh, God, Ken. What did he tell you?”

“He said that Danni was sold into slavery a few weeks after she went missing. He knew information about Danni’s abduction that indicated he was telling the truth.”

“Slavery?” His wife started to cry.

“Listen to me,” he said. “Danni worked her way into her abductor’s heart. She convinced him not to kill her, so he sold her instead. Our daughter knew what she was doing.”

“What are you saying? That I should be happy?”

“Danni made a choice that saved her life. It was her choice. Be thankful for that. Now I have to find the man that owns her.”

He listened to his wife blow her nose.

“Do you think she’s still alive?” she asked.

Linderman had asked himself the same question a dozen times since speaking to Crutch. There was no absolute way to know. But then he’d reminded himself of something. If Danni could survive the likes of Simon Skell, she could survive anything.

“Yes, I do,” he said.

“You’re not just saying that, are you?”

“No, Muriel. I think our daughter is alive.”

His wife breathed heavily into the phone. Her heart was racing, just like his own, the sound the only punctuation in a world filled with awful silence. It was a sound the parent of every missing child knew. Of a distant heartbeat, waiting to be found.

He rose from his chair. “I’ll call you tonight. Promise.”

“I love you,” his wife said.

Linderman entered the conference room and apologized for holding everyone up. Five clean-cut agents sat at an oval table with bottled waters in front of their laptops. Each agent acknowledged him with a slight dip of the head.

Wood stood at the head of the table with his jacket off, waiting to start. “Good afternoon. I’d like to introduce Ken Linderman, supervisory agent of the CARD unit in the FBI’s North Miami office. Ken is an old friend and trusted colleague. Ken has asked for our help in dealing with an unusual situation. Please give him your undivided attention.”

The five agents shifted their attention to Linderman. Two were Asian, two African-American, one Latino. The FBI had changed a lot since Linderman had joined. Back then, ninety-nine percent of the agents were white, and most gatherings had resembled a sitting for a Norman Rockwell painting.

“This morning I met with an inmate at Starke Prison named Jason Crutchfield, also known as Crutch,” Linderman said. “For the past year, Crutch has been communicating with a serial killer in Fort Lauderdale named Killer X. Mr. Clean has been abducting violent teenage boys, and attempting to groom them into becoming serial killers. Crutch has been helping him.

“During our meeting, Crutch attempted to broker a deal with me. He gave me some scant information regarding Mr. Clean’s occupation. He also offered to give me information about my daughter, who was abducted six years ago by another serial killer named Simon Skell.”

The coffee cup was in Linderman’s hand. Crushing it, he tossed the cup into a plastic pail. Everyone in the room was watching him.

“In exchange for this information, Crutch wants me to leave him alone, and not talk to the parole board next year when his sentence is reviewed,” Linderman went on. “Crutch has good reason for wanting me to stay out of his hair. Since being incarcerated, he’s been linked to twenty-four killings in different parts of the country.

“I want to put the screws to Crutch, and scare him into telling me what Mr. Clean does for a living, and also what happened to my daughter. That’s where you come in.

“The twenty-four killings are over a decade old. At the time, the police didn’t know they were linked, or that a serial killer was involved. I’m guessing that a lot of DNA evidence has been lost since those crimes were committed. We’re going to need to dig deep to find what we’re looking for. Any questions?”

The five agents at the table exchanged glances. Something was obviously bothering them. The Latino agent raised her hand. She looked about thirty, with curly dark hair and a round, almost sweet face.

“Yes,” Linderman said.

“Special Agent Amanda Cruz,” she said. “Do you think you should excuse yourself from the investigation, considering the circumstances? I mean, it is your daughter.”

It was an honest question, deserving of a thoughtful response. Being too close to an investigation led to poor decision making, and lapses in judgement. Cruz had every right to ask Linderman if he was up to the task.

Linderman picked his words carefully. He wanted to tell Cruz not to worry, that he could handle it, only something was preventing him from doing so.

Rage.

The feeling was strange. Like he was flying down the highway at a hundred miles an hour. Fearful of losing control, yet not caring if he did.

His rage began to boil over. He felt the overwhelming desire to curse out Cruz, and call her ugly names. Bitch, whore, wetback, came to mind. He imagined Cruz talking back to him, and the angry response it would incur.

He bit his tongue to stop the words from rushing out of his mouth. He’d never cursed a woman in his life. The amount of times he’d raised his voice to Muriel he could count on one hand. This wasn’t him.

So who the hell was it?

He didn’t know. He counted silently to five, and the rage slipped away.

“I probably should excuse myself,” he admitted. “Only we have a ticking clock. A teenage boy in Fort Lauderdale has been abducted. We need to move fast.”

The answer seemed to satisfy Cruz, and she nodded thoughtfully.

“Any more questions?” Linderman asked.

The other four agents at the table shook their heads.

“Good. Let’s get to work,” Linderman said.

Chapter 35

Linkage analysis.

The words had become a catchphrase within the FBI during the past decade, and had helped track down and capture more serial killers than any single piece of forensic science.

The concept behind linkage analysis was simple. By examining behavior that was contained in three distinct components of a crime, law enforcement would be able to draw a more complete picture of a killer, and as a result, bring him to justice.

Standing at a white drawing board in the front of the conference room, Linderman used a magic marker to write the three components of linkage analysis.

Modus Operandi (MO)

Ritual

Signature

The five agents from the Jacksonville office stared at their laptops. Each agent had read Bob Kessler’s report about Crutch. Also on their laptops were the homicide reports from the six cities where Crutch’s twenty-four victims had been discovered. The police departments in those cities had emailed Linderman the information which they’d collected on those killings, hoping to get the cases off their books.

“Let’s start with Crutch’s MO,” Linderman said. “Anyone want to take a stab?”

The line brought grins from the group. Cruz went first.

“It’s identical in each killing,” she said. “The victims are raped and killed and left in a wooded area that’s frequented by picnickers and nature lovers. Their bodies are naked, and have been bitten around the face and neck. In each city, three of the victims were severely beaten with a blunt instrument, while a fourth victim was not. According to the autopsy reports, each victim died from massive blood loss.”

Linderman wrote each item in bold letters next to MO on the board. Then he turned around to face Cruz. “Do the victims share any similarities?” he asked.

Cruz scrolled through the homicide reports. “The victims who weren’t beaten were all young, and small in stature.”

“How young?”

“Late teens.”

“How old were the other victims?”

“In each city, there was one victim in her late forties, while the other two were in their mid-twenties.”

“Should we assume he’s profiling his victims before he kills them?”

“It would appear so.”

Linderman wrote these items next to Ritual on the board.

“Who wants to go next?” he asked.

Waller, one of the two African-American agents, spoke up. Tall and broad-shouldered, Waller carried himself like an athlete, his hands animated as he spoke.

“Each of these crime scenes is identical,” Waller pointed out. “The bodies were dumped in the woods near each other. The autopsy reports say the victims died at different times, yet they all ended up in the same place. Crutch brought them to the woods and did something to them, then left them.”

“At the same time?” Linderman asked.

“Yes, at the same time,” Waller said.

“How can you be certain?” Linderman pressed him. “For all we know, Crutch could have dumped the victims at different times.”

The conference room fell silent. Waller needed more facts to bolster his argument. The agent glanced at his laptop while gathering his thoughts.

“I don’t think so. Here’s why,” Waller said. “In each of the cities, hikers discovered the bodies. If Crutch had been dumping the bodies at different times, the bodies would have been discovered individually. That didn’t happen. In each city, the bodies were discovered together.”

Linderman liked where Waller was headed, but still wanted more proof.

“Why didn’t the police in these cities see this?” Linderman asked.

“They didn’t have the luxury of looking at six crime scenes,” Waller replied. “Since the autopsy reports indicated the victims died at different times, the police in each city assumed the bodies were dumped at different times. I think the police were wrong.”

“How can you be sure without evidence?” Linderman asked.

“The similarities in the crime scenes is our evidence,” Waller explained. “Serial killers are driven by ritualistic fantasies. These fantasies express the killer’s primary motivation for committing the crime. Crutch was killing his victims, then bringing their bodies to the woods to perform the ritual, then leaving the bodies once the ritual was finished. That’s why the crime scenes in the six cities are identical.”

Linderman added the points to the board next to the word Ritual.

Four female victims in each city

One middle age female (45-50)

Two young females (20-30)

One teenager female (15-18)

Bodies brought to woods to perform ritual

He examined what he’d written. They were getting closer to learning Crutch’s motivation, always a watershed moment when dealing with serial killers. His attention shifted back to the group.

“So what’s the ritual?” he asked.

Cruz again answered. “Crutch purposely chose wooded areas to dump his victims’ bodies. Those areas were all near hiking paths, and were well used by the public. There might be another connection here that we’re missing.”

“In the sites themselves,” Linderman said.

“Exactly,” Cruz said. “The police assumed the bodies were dumped in the woods because that’s where most killers dump bodies. But that may not be our killer’s motivation. The woods may have held some other significance to him.”

The door to the conference room opened. Wood entered holding two cardboard pizza boxes and a six pack of Coke dangling from his fingertips.

“Break time,” Wood announced.

Soon everyone was eating. Linderman had asked Wood to order the food, wanting to repay the group for their time in some small way.

“How’s it going?” Wood asked, biting into a slice of pepperoni.

“We’re making progress,” Linderman replied.

After break, the group studied the crime scene photos.

A plasma TV was wheeled into the room, and the police crime scene photos taken in the six cities were displayed. The majority showed the corpses after they’d been dug up from shallow graves. The sameness of the dead women was striking — the older victims were tall and thin, the youngest short and heavyset.

Looking at the dead was never easy, and the Jacksonville team viewed the bodies in silence, the only sound coming from their writing instruments as they jotted down notes.

“Who wants to go first?” Linderman asked.

Waller lifted a finger into the air. “The victims were all props,” he said.

The same thought had crossed Linderman’s mind. Not wanting to steal Waller’s thunder, he waited for the agent to continue.

“Crutch’s ritual requires four women of a certain size and age, an ensemble if you will,” Waller went on. “The victims are brought to the woods and put in specific positions so that Crutch can act out his ritual. Once the ritual is over, the women are tossed away, and he leaves. He’s more concerned about his ritual than hiding the bodies.”

The group nodded as one. Waller had hit the nail on the head.

“Very good,” Linderman said. “Now let’s figure out what Crutch’s ritual is.”

An agent named Jason Choy raised his hand. Choy was small and slight of build. The FBI had once placed height requirements on new agents that had prevented someone of Choy’s size from joining. Those requirements had been lifted when the bureau had realized that intellect was more important than physical size.

“Yes, Jason,” Linderman said.

“I think I found something,” Choy said.

The look on Choy’s face said that he’d struck gold. Choy spun his laptop computer around so the screen faced the room. On it was an aerial photograph taken by the police at the Atlanta crime scene. Aerial photographs were essential in recording crime scenes, as they clearly depicted geography, as well as physical relationships and distances.

Choy pointed at an object in the aerial photograph.

“Look at this,” he said.

Linderman crossed the room to have a look. The other agents leaned in to look as well. The object on the screen was rectangular, and within equal proximity to where the victims’ bodies had been found.

“What is it?” Linderman asked.

“It appears to be a picnic table,” Choy replied. “I think Crutch sat the bodies on the table as part of his ritual.”

“How can you be sure?”

Choy clicked the mouse on his laptop. Another photograph appeared. An aerial shot of the Raleigh crime scene. Linderman spotted the table in the photograph without having to be shown. It was right next to an outdoor barbecue in a clearing.

Choy ran through the other aerial photographs of the murder scenes on his laptop. There was a picnic table somewhere in each photograph.

Linderman was not going to jump to conclusions. He had the other agents pull up the aerial photographs on their laptops, with each laptop showing a different aerial photo. The laptops were placed on the table in a row, allowing the agents to view them side-by-side, and compare the murder scenes. By comparing the photos, it became clear that Choy had found a signature linking each of the crimes.

“I kept wondering how Crutch was propping the bodies up to perform his ritual,” Choy explained. “Then I spotted the table. It makes sense, don’t you think?”

Linderman swallowed the rising lump in his throat. Four women, one older, two early twenties, one a teen, sitting at a table like a family. His conversation with Bob Kessler came back to him. Kessler had said that Crutch may have killed his family. Was that what was going on here? Was Crutch killing his family over and over as part of his ritual?

He needed to call Kessler. But first, congratulations were in order. He walked around the oval table, and pumped Choy’s hand.

“That’s brilliant,” he said.

Chapter 36

They took a break. Linderman went outside and walked around to the back of the building. The afternoon had heated up, without a whisper of breeze in the air. He spotted a heron fishing at the edge of a retention pond. Keeping his distance, he pulled out his cell phone, and punched in Bob Kessler’s home number.

Kessler’s voice mail picked up. The retired profiler’s message was firm but polite. Leave a message and he’d call you back. Linderman had always liked direct, which was why he supposed he’d gotten along so well with Kessler when he’d worked for him.

He left a message and folded his phone. Already starting to sweat, he stood beneath a shady stand of oak trees. It was better here, the darkness a welcome relief from the uncompromising glare of sunlight. His eyes fell on the picnic table a few yards away.

The table was empty. It had recently been occupied, the smell of cigarettes lingering in the air, a plastic ashtray overflowing with butts. He’d smoked when he’d first started in the FBI, along with practically everyone else. He’d quit the week his daughter had been born, but the cravings were still there.

He leaned against a tree, and waited for Kessler to call back.

He thought about the significance of the table in the aerial photographs. Tables were communal places where people got together to eat and talk and share stories. They did not generally fit into the killing patterns of madmen, but he supposed there were exceptions to every rule, and this was such an exception. In each city where he’d lived, Crutch had propped his victims’ bodies around a table before he’d discarded them. Why?

A few minutes later his cell phone rang. It was Bob.

“Hope I’m not getting you at a bad time,” Linderman said.

“There are no bad times when you’re retired,” Kessler replied. “You still working on the Jason Crutchfield case?”

“Yes.”

“How’s it going?”

He gave Kessler a rundown of the events which had happened since their phone conversation the day before. His ex-boss let out a deep breath when he was done.

“This isn’t good, Ken,” Kessler said.

“We’re doing the best we can,” Linderman replied.

“I’m not talking about the investigation, which I’m sure you’re handling properly. What bothers me is that you’re letting Crutch get close to you. The guy’s pure evil. He brings out the worst in people.”

Linderman thought back to strange and horrible things which had happened to him since he’d talked with Crutch in the chaplain’s study that morning.

“Are you speaking from experience?” Linderman asked.

“Yes, I am,” Kessler said. “I got close enough to him, and his crimes, for it to affect me. It wasn’t good.”

“Would you mind telling me what happened?”

“Sure. I couldn’t sleep, and I lost my appetite. Ended up losing about fifteen pounds. I argued with my wife a lot, and also with strangers who upset me. I got so fatigued, I started to hallucinate.”

“Were your hallucinations violent?”

“Yes. I wrote them all down. I thought I was having a mental breakdown, and wanted to chronicle what was happening to me in case I had to be institutionalized. I figured it would give the doctors a head start on figuring out how to treat me.”

He could see Kessler doing this, his degree of organization far above anyone else he’d ever worked with. He said, “Did you end up going into the hospital?”

“You mean did I go nuts? No, thank God. I eventually got back to normal. Just woke up one morning, and the sky was sunny again.”

“Did you ever imagine yourself killing someone?” Linderman asked.

There was a silence on the line.

“Several times,” Kessler said.

“How?”

“With my hands. Is that happening to you, Ken?”

“Yes. I imagined killing Crutch at the prison.”

“That’s not surprising, considering what he said about your daughter.”

“It was real. I was doing it. Then I snapped back to reality.”

“That’s not good. How many times has this happened?”

If he lied to Kessler, their friendship would suffer because of it. But if he told Kessler the truth, Bob would pick up the phone, and alert someone within the bureau that he was having mental issues.

“Just once,” Linderman lied. “What would you suggest if it happens again?”

“Go see a doctor. You don’t want these fantasies invading your thoughts. They’re extremely dangerous.”

Yes, they are, Linderman thought.

“Thanks for the warning,” Linderman said. “Now, let me tell you why I called. You mentioned yesterday there was evidence that Crutch had murdered his family. Can you give me some specifics?”

“Sure,” Kessler said. “When Crutch was arrested in Melbourne for kidnaping Lucy Moore, he let the police interview him. During the interview, Crutch mentioned his family back in Pittsburgh, and how they hadn’t gotten along when he was growing up. It peaked my curiosity, so I did some digging. I found a distant cousin in Massachusetts who was very helpful.

“The cousin’s name was Horace Perret, if I remember correctly. Ex-military guy. Perret told me that Crutch appeared on his doorstep with a suitcase one day, and asked if he could stay for a while. Crutch claimed that his family had moved to Canada, which was where the mother was originally from. Crutch said that his mother had been angry with him, and left him behind to fend for himself.”

“How old was Crutch?” Linderman asked.

“Crutch was about to enter his junior year in highschool, so that would have made him either sixteen or seventeen. Perret said that Crutch appeared to be handling the separation pretty well, and said several times that it was probably for the better. Perret said that Crutch lived with him for six months, and then went to stay with another relative in Boston, and lived with that relative until he graduated highschool. Crutch was extremely bright, and got accepted to MIT on a full academic scholarship. Perret said he lost touch with Crutch after that, as did other members of the family.”

“What led you to think Crutch murdered his family, and that his story wasn’t true?”

“I did a public records search in Canada for Crutch’s mother. I also contacted the Royal Canadian Mounted Police, and got them to do a search. The woman didn’t exist, and neither did her children.”

“Do you know how many children there were?”

Kessler paused, thinking. “Three besides Crutch.”

“Were they all female?”

“Yes … how did you know?”

“Crutch has been killing his mother and three sisters over and over in the cities where he’s lived. It’s his ritual.”

Kessler said something that sounded like a curse. A rarity for him.

“Why didn’t I see that?” Kessler said, angry with himself.

“You kept him in prison, Bob. That’s more than enough.”

Kessler continued to grumble. This would eat at him for a long time.

“I need to get back to work,” Linderman said. “One last question. Do you have the address for Crutch’s family home in Pittsburgh?”

“It should be in my files. Hold on.”

Kessler was gone for several minutes. Linderman continued to watch the heron catch fish from the pond. Kessler came back on the line.

“Found it. They lived on 712 Morningside Drive in Oakmont, which is an old suburb about twenty minutes from downtown.”

Linderman took a pen from his pocket and wrote the address on the back of a business card. He thanked his old boss for his help.

“Keep me in the loop,” Kessler said. “I want to hear how this plays out.”

Linderman said goodbye and folded his phone. Crutch was a smart killer, and had left no evidence linking him to his heinous crimes. But what about the first time, when he’d killed his mother and sisters? Had he had the presence of mind to clean up after himself then? More than likely, he hadn’t. He needed to catch a flight to Pittsburgh, and pay a visit to the Crutchfield family home. If his hunch was right, there would be enough evidence there to link Crutch to his family’s murders, and make him talk.

He headed back to the building. A shadow passed directly overhead, momentarily eclipsing the sun. It was the heron, its wings flapping furiously.

He glanced over his shoulder in alarm. Four women now occupied the picnic table. He had no idea where they’d come from. Their physical similarities were striking, right down to having identical facial features and the same hair color. Their mouths moved up and down as they chatted happily away.

A teenage boy dressed in blue jeans and a white tee-shirt emerged from behind a tree. It was Crutch. His hair was much fuller, his body lighter. Clutched in his hands was an axe handle which he waved menacingly in the air. He stood at the head of the table, and screamed silently at the women.

The four women ignored him, and continued to chat away.

Crutch moved to hit one of the women, then froze. He looked in Linderman’s direction, the expression on his face a mixture of savagery and pain. Like he could not help himself.

Linderman knew that what he was seeing was not real, yet it did not change his response. He ran toward the picnic table, intent on stopping Crutch.

By the time he reached the table, they were gone.

Chapter 37

Routines did not change inside a prison. It was part of the punishment.

At three o’clock, the inmates in Crutch’s cellblock were let outside. For the next hour, they could play basketball, smoke cigarettes, or do nothing.

It was the best part of the day.

Crutch stood eagerly by his cell door. He was filled with stress, and needed to go run around and stretch. He’d read how stress caused cancer and other fatal diseases. He didn’t want to get sick in prison. The care was terrible.

He’d expected to have heard from Linderman by now. Linderman’s unwillingness to accept his deal had surprised him. Didn’t Linderman want to know what had happened to his beloved child? Or was he going to stick to the rules, and not let Crutch get the best of him? Crutch didn’t see him holding out forever. Losing the thing you loved most in the world was never fun. That he knew for a fact.

The fat guard named Mickey approached his cell. He motioned for Crutch to step back, and the door electronically opened. He stepped in.

“Something wrong?” Crutch asked.

“Not a thing,” Mickey said.

He punched Crutch in the stomach. Crutch went down on one knee, gasping for air. “Asshole,” Mickey said.

“What’s wrong?” he gasped.

“You fucked up.”

“I didn’t do anything….”

“Tell that to the FBI. They were bugging the cell phones, listening to you. The shit’s going to hit the fan.”

Crutch took several deep breaths. “What’s going to happen?”

“Stand up. I can’t hear you.”

“Promise you won’t hit me again.”

“I won’t hit you again.”

Crutch pulled himself to his feet and Mickey punched him again. There was no truth inside a prison, just the same lies, told over and over. He went back down.

“Asshole,” Mickey said again.

Crutch wanted to kill Mickey. It wouldn’t be terribly hard — Mickey was fat and slow and wouldn’t see it coming. But Crutch first needed to find out the extent of the damages. He needed to know what he was facing with the other inmates.

“Tell me. Please,” he begged.

“Jenkins is reviewing what happened,” Mickey said. “Every guard who’s involved will either get fined, or fired, or both. The inmates who were involved will lose their privileges and it will go in their files. Everybody’s fucked because of you.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to screw up.”

“You’re sorry? Jenkins said you were talking to some whack-job in Fort Lauderdale who’s killing teenagers. You didn’t tell us you were a child killer, little man.”

Crutch felt Mickey’s hands gripping the sides of his arms. The guard pulled him to his feet and shook him. His round, pimply face was right there in front of him.

Kill him! the voice inside Crutch’s head screamed.

“Jenkins also said you were the sickest puppy he’s ever come across,” Mickey said. “That says a lot, coming from him.”

The inmates had started to file out of the cellblock. Mickey spun Crutch around and pushed him out of the cell. Crutch tried to put on the brakes. He needed to stay here, and think things out. Too much was happening at once for him to deal with.

“Come on,” the guard said.

“I don’t want to go into the yard,” Crutch said.

“You don’t have a choice, little man.”

Mickey continued to push him out of the building until they were standing in the blinding sunlight of the grassy yard, surrounded by hundreds of other inmates whose eyes seemed to catch on Crutch’s face and tear at the skin.

“Have a nice day,” Mickey said, walking away.

Crutch stood frozen to the ground. He thought about the metal shiv hidden in the hollow leg of his bed. He knew that many inmates carried their shivs for protection when they were in the yard. He had never felt the need to carry a weapon, convinced he could talk his way out of any tight situation.

Until now.

He couldn’t talk his way out of the web of lies he’d spun. They’d started the day he’d entered Starke, and had continued until a few short minutes ago, the facade of him being a soft-spoken Milquetoast easy for the other inmates to digest. But now the other inmates had been given a taste of the real him, and that was unacceptable even to their lowly standards. It was only a matter of time before they retaliated.

He was going to die.

The other inmates would gang up, and figure out the best way to kill him. They’d recruit another inmate who had nothing to lose, and give him the job. It would be like a badge of honor.

He scurried around the yard, looking for a place to hide. He tried to join several groups of inmates standing in tight circles, but was rebuffed each time.

“Get the hell away from us,” an inmate swore.

“Yeah — fuck off,” another warned.

He came to the basketball courts. A pick-up game was going on between a team of black inmates, and a team of white inmates. The white team couldn’t play worth a damn, but that didn’t stop them from throwing elbows and putting up a fight.

A crowd of white inmates stood beside the court, shouting encouragement to the white players. They were muscle heads, and spent their free time in the weight room, pumping iron. Crutch stood behind their broad bodies, and pretended to watch the game. For a few minutes, everything was good. Then, one of the white inmates spotted him.

“Look who’s here,” the inmate said.

The inmate was a bank robber out of Pensacola named Justin Hainz. Hainz had a nasty side that even the black inmates respected. Hainz grabbed Crutch, and put him in a headlock.

“Cut it out,” Crutch said.

“You’ve been a bad boy,” Hainz said.

“Haven’t we all?”

“Ha, ha.”

“Come on, let me go.”

“Hey guys, look who came for a visit,” Hainz said to the others.

The others formed a tight circle around the two, no longer interested in the violence taking place around the hoops. Crutch struggled to free himself.

“Let me go!”

Hainz threw him to the ground. Crutch landed on his back, and spent a moment trying to regain his senses. He looked up into a sea of hatred.

“Who wants him first?” Hainz asked the group.

“I do.” One of the blacks penetrated the group, and pointed at him. “Motherfucker ruined my business. Without my cell phone, I can’t talk to my runners no more.”

It was his neighbor, Leon.

“Come on, Leon, I didn’t mean to screw you up,” Crutch said.

“Doesn’t matter what you meant,” Leon said.

Leon raised his leg. Once Leon started kicking him, the others would join in. This happened often in the yard, the inmates pent-up rage turning into a feeding frenzy of violence. They would kick in his teeth and break his ribs and puncture his stomach and he’d go to the infirmary and never be the same. He wouldn’t die, but he’d wished he had.

Kill him, the voice inside his head said.

Crutch hesitated. So many times during his prison stay, the voice inside his head had told him to kill another inmate, or a guard. Just as many times, he’d refused to listen. It had been hard, but he had no other choice.

But the game had changed. Now, it was about survival. Killing so that he might continue to live.

Do it, the voice said.

Crutch sprang to his feet and threw himself onto Leon, wrapping his arms and legs around the black inmate’s body. He did hundreds of push-ups every day in his cell, and was stronger than people thought.

Leon tried to shake him off. When that didn’t work, he brought a fist up, and clocked Crutch in the back of the head.

“Let go, motherfucker,” Leon said.

The other inmates were slapping their sides with laughter. They did not see the threat, just as Leon did not see the threat.

Bite him, the voice commanded.

Crutch sunk his teeth into Leon’s neck and tore away at the flesh until he’d found the jugular vein. Warm blood splashed onto Crutch’s face and streamed down his neck. He brought his face away, and watched the blood geyser out of Leon’s body.

Leon screamed and did a pirouette with Crutch still hanging on. Then he fell backwards, his body making a terrific Whumph! as it landed on the grass. The other inmates stepped back, their laughter gone.

Crutch stayed on top of Leon, and drank his blood. He knew the perils of this, the inmates rife with AIDs and other fatally transmitted diseases, but he did not care. He had missed the erotic ecstasy of tasting a person’s blood as the life seeped from their body. It was like dying and going to heaven.

It was love.

Finally the guards pulled him off Leon’s lifeless body, and hauled him away.

Chapter 38

“I think we’re going about this wrong,” DuCharme said.

Food was fuel during an investigation. They were eating chips and salsa at a Mexican restaurant called Pepe’s in North Miami. Vick had not spoken ten words to the detective since he’d weaseled his way into her apartment a few hours ago. She still wanted to rip his head off for what he’d done to her.

“How so?” she replied, upping the word count.

“Son of Sam’s crimes are somehow similar to Mr. Clean’s crimes, right?”

Vick wiped her chin with a paper napkin and nodded.

“If we can figure out the similarity, it will lead us to figuring out what Mr. Clean does for a living, right?”

DuCharme’s tone was nothing but condescending. Like the investigation was his, and she was just palling along for the ride.

“Get to the point,” she said.

“We’ve just wasted two hours reading up on Son of Sam, and haven’t found the similarity. Maybe we should be reexamining the files on Mr. Clean instead. You never know — something might jump out at us.”

Vick stopped eating. DuCharme was as thick as a brick when it came to police work, yet this was a good idea. Even blind pigs got acorns, she supposed.

“I’ve got a better idea,” Vick said. “Instead of looking at files, why don’t we go and look at one of the crime scenes? It will give us a better feel for him.”

“You mean where he dumped one of his victims?” DuCharme asked.

“Yes. I did that when I was writing my thesis on Son of Sam. I flew to New York, and went to several locations in Queens where Son of Sam shot his victims while they were sitting in their cars. It helped me get a feel for the guy’s psyche.”

“Any victim of Mr. Clean’s in particular?”

“Barrie Reedy, the boy Mr. Clean abducted before Wayne Ladd. Reedy’s body was found two weeks ago in West Broward. The scene will be the freshest.”

DuCharme flashed a toothy grin. There was a sparkle in his eye that said he thought there was still hope for them. Vick was going to make sure that sparkle was gone when the case was over. Until then, she would just have to suffer.

Taking Vick’s Audi, they drove north on I-95 into Broward, then headed west on Sunrise Boulevard to the overgrown field near the Sawgrass Mills Mall where Reedy’s body had been found. Vick parked on the shoulder, and they both got out.

The afternoon air was moist and still. In the west, black storm clouds filled the horizon, their march toward the city slow and ominous. By early evening, some area of the county would be punished by their fury.

Vick trudged through the tall grass with DuCharme kicking at her heels. Reedy’s body had been found in the middle of the field next to the shopping mall, approximately a hundred yards from the service road. If she remembered correctly, the body had been fresh, and had not started to decompose.

She came to the crime scene and stopped. It was a flat area with knee high grass. A No Dumping sign was posted on a nearby tree, covered in lewd graffiti. Pieces of yellow police tape still lay on the ground, the weeds flattened from the CSI people looking for clues. She rose on her tip-toes and did a slow three-sixty spin, staring.

“What are you looking for?” DuCharme asked.

“The reason Reedy’s body was dumped here,” she replied.

“What do you mean?”

Vick lowered her heels and turned to face him. “Rule one of finding a body. Why was it dumped here? There’s always a reason. Most of the time, it’s the most convenient spot for the killer to use. That’s not the case here. Mr. Clean had to park on the service road, and carry Reedy’s body from his vehicle to this spot. Why did he do that?”

A cigarette had appeared in DuCharme’s mouth, a lit match in his hand. He took a deep drag and shrugged.

“We need to find out,” Vick said. “Let’s start walking the field.”

“What are we looking for?”

“The thing which attracted Mr. Clean to this area.”

Vick took a Kleenex from her purse and wiped the sweat off her brow. Then she put on a pair of shades and started her hunt. DuCharme took off in the opposite direction.

She took fifteen steps and came to a small clearing with soda cans littering the ground. The spot looked like a teenage hangout. Kneeling, she ran her fingers through the grass, and found several cigarette butts and gum wrappers.

She stood up and walked around the clearing. She came to a well-worn trail which led directly back to the Sawgrass Mall on the other side of the field. She guessed this was where teenage workers at the mall came on their break to drink sodas and smoke.

She spent another twenty minutes searching the field, but eventually came back to the hangout spot. It was the only place on the field where there was any sign of human activity. DuCharme soon joined her, his forehead glistening with perspiration.

“Find anything?” he asked.

“You’re standing in it,” Vick replied.

He looked around. “What am I missing?”

“Mr. Clean dumped Reedy’s body near a spot where teenagers hang out. Why did he do that, instead of dumping it someplace else?”

DuCharme had to think for a second.

“He wanted it to be found?” the detective asked.

“Yes. And he got his wish. Reedy was found right away. The question is, was this the first time Mr. Clean did this, or have we found a pattern?”

Back in the car, they poured through the case files of Mr. Clean’s killings of prostitutes. Vick immediately found a number of similarities that had not popped out at her before. The bodies of his victims had been found near well-used areas in Broward County, including several public parks, the Holiday Tennis Center, a half-dozen shopping malls, and several golf courses. Each body had been found in a relatively fresh state, allowing the police to clearly identify what had been done to it. In every case, the body had been discovered by someone who regularly frequented the area.

So what did it all mean? Vick didn’t know. She shut her eyes and basked in the car’s AC, trying to figure it out. Mr. Clean had hidden his victim’s bodies well enough to avoid immediate detection, yet in spots where he knew the bodies would be eventually found, usually within twenty-four hours of having been dumped.

She glanced at DuCharme. He was reading a file, his lips moving silently.

“What are you thinking?” she asked.

The detective kept reading for a few seconds more, then shut the file.

“Something’s bothering me,” DuCharme said.

“What?”

“Mr. Clean wanted the police to find his victims, yet he never contacted the police to take responsibility for the killings. That’s not normal, is it?”

Vick blinked. DuCharme was right. Serial killers who killed their victims in public places generally contacted the police or the media and took responsibility. It was how they satisfied their cravings for recognition.

But that wasn’t Mr. Clean’s profile. He’d been killing women for a quarter century, and not once contacted the police, or the media. He was an invisible man.

Vick was wide awake now. There was something else going on here, some other reason why Mr. Clean had dumped the bodies to be found. She turned down the AC and gave DuCharme her best southern smile.

“Good call,” she said. “Now what does it mean?”

DuCharme reached into the backseat and retrieved her thesis on Son of Sam. He opened the report to the section which detailed Son of Sam’s killings, and slapped the pages with his fingers.

“It’s in here, right?” he asked.

“Right,” she said.

“Why don’t you drive, and I’ll read it to you. Maybe you’ll see it.”

“Why should I drive?”

“It was an old trick my partner used to use. When a case was bothering him, he’d drive around town and have me read the case file to him,” DuCharme explained. “There was something about the concentration that it took to drive the car that cleared his head.”

“It worked?”

“Most of the time, yeah.”

Vick was willing to try just about anything at this point. She started the engine and drove down the shoulder of Sunrise Boulevard and merged into traffic. The roads were jammed, and she drove with her eyes glued to the sea of cars.

“Start reading,” she said.

“Okay. Son of Sam’s first tried to kill his victims with a knife. On three different occasions, he stabbed a woman on the streets of New York and ran away. When he saw no mention of the crimes in the newspapers, he assumed the women had survived, and decided to start using a gun.

“He drove to Texas and purchased a Charter Arms .44 pistol and some bullets. He was afraid to buy ammunition in New York because he was afraid the police would somehow track down the shell casings to his residence.

“His first victim was a nineteen-year-old named Donna Lauria. Lauria was sitting in her car with a friend named Jody Valente in front of Lauria’s home at one o’clock in the morning on July 21, 1976. Valentne started to exit the car when Son of Sam approached holding a brown paper bag. He drew a gun from the bag and fired five shots, wounding Valente and killing Lauria. Then he ran away.

“Son of Sam later admitted to the police that killing Lauria and wounding her friend had sexually excited him. For several days after this, he read the newspaper articles in his home while masturbating. It satisfied a need which so far had gone unfulfilled.”

Dark clouds were directly ahead. In her hurry, Vick had driven directly into the storm. It was the last place she wanted to be.

She hit her indicator and tried to get into a turn lane. Heavy drops of rain pelted her windshield. A split-second later, the clouds opened up, and the downpour began.

“Say that last line again,” she said.

DuCharme ran his finger down the page. “It satisfied a need which so far had gone unfulfilled.”

“That’s it.”

Vick hit her horn and started cutting across the lanes of traffic. She came to the intersection and did an illegal U-turn and headed back the way they’d come. DuCharme said nothing, his mouth agape as he watched her drive.

She punched the gas, hoping to outrace the storm. But it was too late; the darkness and rain had already enveloped them. At the next light, she threw her Audi into park.

“Mr. Clean is dropping the bodies in these locations because it satisfies a need,” she explained. “He’s done it with every one of his victims. It’s part of his signature.”

“Is that what links him to Son of Sam?”

“Yes. Now we have to figure out what that need is.”

The light changed. Vick’s car skidded on the wet road as she hit the gas.

“Keep reading,” she told DuCharme.

Chapter 39

Dusk was settling as the Southwest Airlines jet touched down on the runway at Pittsburgh International Airport and the cabin of people broke into applause. The flight had been as rocky as a roller-coaster, and everyone was happy for the safe landing.

Linderman pulled his overnight bag out of the overhead bin. He was one of the few onboard who hadn’t been bothered by the rough conditions. Flying in an airplane was safer than riding in a car, not that you could convince most people of that. The things that people should have been truly frightened of, they rarely were.

Soon he was sitting in a rental on the Avis lot. He’d rented a GPS system, into which he keyed the address of the Crutchfield house. He did not know Pittsburgh, and was going to rely on the GPS to keep him from getting lost.

The interstate was jammed with rush-hour traffic. He inched along, thinking dark thoughts. It had been a brutal day. He’d fantasized killing Crutch in the chapel, imagined seeing Crutch electrocuted at the restaurant, and had visualized Crutch trying to kill his own family at the FBI office in Jax. Evil thoughts had invaded his mind, and would not go away. Kessler had warned him about this, but Linderman hadn’t understood the danger.

Traffic started to move. Soon the city’s gray buildings were behind him, and he was traveling through the hilly suburbs. He had programmed the GPS system so the voice would have a female British accent. It was a nice change, and he let the voice guide him to the Crutchfield home on Morningside Drive in Oakmont.

It was dark when his headlights found the mailbox with the address. It was a remote area with no streetlights, the land heavily forested. He got out of his car to make sure he had the right place. Printed on the side of the mailbox in faint letters was the word CRUTCHFIELD.

He inched his rental down the gravel driveway past a stand of trees. Almost immediately he had to stop. A fallen oak tree lay in his path. He tried to drive around it, only to find there was no room on either side.

He climbed out and tried to move the tree. He managed to get it an inch off the ground, nothing more.

“Damn it.”

He hadn’t come all this way to be stopped by a lousy tree. He opened the trunk and got the flashlight from his garment bag, and checked it to make sure the batteries still worked. They did, and he headed down the driveway by foot.

The walk lifted his spirits. The air was cooler than back home, and there was a refreshing chill in the air. He hadn’t appreciated the cold until he’d moved to Florida to hunt for Danni. Now, the cold was something he dreamed of going back to.

A tall wooden fence greeted him at the driveway’s end. A painted sign had been nailed to the fence. The sign read No Trespassing — This Means You!

He tried to open the gate, and found that it was locked. On either side of the gate was a fence topped with metal spikes. It was growing dark and he probably should have gone back to his car and waited until tomorrow but instead he grabbed the top of the gate with his hand and pulled himself up so he was looking over it.

That was when he saw the house.

It was an old Victorian three-story with a gabled roof and a wraparound front porch with a metal swing. The swing moved eerily back and forth despite there not being a hint of breeze. The front door had criss-crossing boards nailed over it, and pieces of plywood covered the windows. Shingles were missing from the roof and the paint was peeling in large chunks off the front and sides. Not a soul had lived here for years.

He wanted to see more.

It was a bad idea. He didn’t have a search warrant, and would be breaking the law should he step onto the property without one. He believed in the law, and what it stood for. He had never broken the law for the sake of speeding up an investigation.

Until now.

He pulled his head up a few more inches, then threw his leg over the top of the gate. It was a struggle. When the leg did go over, the rest of the body went as well.

He landed on in a heap on the other side. His forty-eight-year-old body had its share of aches and pains, and he spent a moment making sure he hadn’t broken anything. Rising, he dusted himself off, then checked the flashlight. It still worked.

He let the flashlight’s beam guide him toward the house. The state of disrepair grew more evident the closer he got. Stopping on the front path, he shone his light up and down the structure and spotted several birdnests in the rain gutters.

The swing continued its ghostly movement. . With his free hand he grabbed one of the metal chains from which it hung. Only then did it stop.

He cautiously sat down on the swing. To his relief, it did not come crashing down. Shutting off his light, he stared at the encroaching darkness. His friend Jack Carpenter talked about light and darkness as if they were opposing forces, one put on this earth to inspire hope and inspiration, the other an instrument of fear, and death.

A noise snapped his head. It was a woman’s voice, and was high-pitched. He rose from the swing and tried to determine where it had come from.

Then he heard it again. A cry for help, coming from inside the house. There was a boarded window behind the swing. He placed his ear to it, listening.

“Jason, no!” the woman shrieked.

“Shut up, mother!” came the voice of Crutch.

“Oh, my God, Jason, please don’t kill them,” the woman said. “Please.”

“But they’re already dead, mother!”

“You killed my babies! You fucking little bastard.”

“You’re next, mother!”

Linderman pulled his ear away from the plywood. He knew what he was hearing wasn’t real. It couldn’t be real — Crutch was in prison, and not inside the house. Yet it sounded as real as his footsteps on the porch.

He was losing his mind.

He retreated off the porch. His heart was pounding out of control and he was experiencing tunnel vision. He needed to get back to the car and calm down.

He heard a thundering noise and shone his flashlight at the house. The criss-crossing boards were no longer across the front door, and the paint on the house looked fresh and new. The front door banged open, and Crutch emerged with the body of a woman slung over his shoulder.

“Stop!” Linderman said without thinking.

Crutch came down the stairs and hurried across the lawn, the look in his eyes pure savagery. He walked right past Linderman and made his way toward the barn on the other side of the property. Linderman got a look at the woman he was carrying. She was dead, her face bashed in beyond recognition.

“I said stop!” Linderman shouted.

Crutch picked up speed, and disappeared inside the barn. Linderman ran after him, knowing that he was chasing something that was not real.

He halted at the barn’s entranceway. The interior was dark and had a rancid smell. He shone his light inside and saw a center aisle flanked by horse stalls. He entered cautiously and heard a rustling sound from above. He found the rafters with his flashlight and imprisoned several nests of birds in its beam. The mother birds chattered down at him, angry for the intrusion.

He let out a sneeze. A thick veil of dust covered everything inside the barn. It gave him an idea, and he shone his flashlight at the ground. No footprints. It had all been a trick of his imagination, yet he could not shake how real it had seemed.

He walked down the aisle and shone his flashlight into the different stalls. The boards on the walls were falling off, and the stalls looked old and uncared for. No one had been here in a long time.

At the end of the aisle was a wash rack for horses. The floors inside the wash rack were made of concrete, and there were drains to let the water escape. A sheeted object sat in the center of this area. The object was rectangular, and appeared to be some type of furniture. Placing the flashlight in his mouth, he grabbed the sheet and gently pulled it away, causing dust to rise lazily into the air.

The object was a wooden table with four chairs. As if by magic, four women had appeared in the chairs, and were happily chatting away. Crutch stood at the head of the table with a baseball bat in his hand, and raised it over his head.

Linderman dropped the sheet and ran.

Chapter 40

“Keep reading,” Vick said.

“My eyes are tired.”

“Come on — how many pages are left?”

DuCharme flipped through her thesis on Son of Sam. “Two.”

“So finish it.”

“You folks want some more coffee?”

The waitress hovered next to their table with a fresh pot of joe. It was nearing midnight, and the IHOP was empty save for their table, the employees standing by the swinging door to the kitchen, eyeing their watches. The waitress didn’t care; she knew a decent tip when she saw one.

“Sure. Fill ’er up,” DuCharme said.

Vick declined. She was floating on coffee. DuCharme loaded his cup with cream and several packets of white sugar. He ate too much, smoked too much, and had an insatiable sweet tooth. A walking time bomb, she thought.

The coffee brought him around. He picked up the thesis and resumed.

“Here we go. Since his incarceration in Attica State Prison in New York, Son of Sam has proven to be one of the FBI’s best sources for understanding serial killers. Time and again, Son of Sam has allowed FBI profilers to interview him. He has spoken candidly about his upbringing, and the things which led him to kill. Rarely has he held back when discussing his crimes.

“Perhaps Son of Sam’s most interesting revelation came during an interview with FBI profiler Robert Kessler. Kessler interviewed Son of Sam in Attica on three different occasions, and developed a bond with him.

“During one of their sessions, Kessler discovered a scrapbook in Son of Sam’s cell, and asked if he could look through it. Son of Sam happily obliged.

“The scrapbook was filled with grisly news reports of Son of Sam’s crimes. The New York Tabloids were consumed by the Son of Sam killings during the summer of 1978, which became known as the Summer of Sam, and there were hundreds of such articles.

“Kessler flipped through the scrapbook while watching Son of Sam out of the corner of his eye. He’d seen a glean that hadn’t been there before, and frankly asked the serial killer if rereading the articles was a turn-on.

“Kessler was surprised by the answer he received. Son of Sam admitted that on the nights when he couldn’t find a victim, he would drive back to the scenes of his earlier crimes and fantasize over the shooting. Looking at blood stains on the ground was an erotic experience, and he often sat in his car and masturbated. Wow — what a creep.”

“Keep reading,” Vick said.

“In that candid moment, Son of Sam gave law enforcement a valuable tool in understanding and capturing serial killers. Serial killers did indeed return to the scenes of their crimes. Not because of guilt, as writers such as Dostoevsky would have us believe, but because of the sexual nature of the murder. Returning to the scene was a pleasurable experience, and often fulfilled a killer’s cravings for bloodshed.”

“That’s it,” Vick said.

DuCharme put down the thesis. “It is?”

Vick nodded, furious with herself for not seeing it sooner.

She stood on the sidewalk in front of the restaurant. DuCharme came out with the thesis tucked under his arm and a sheepish look on his face that said he didn’t understand.

“Mr. Clean is just like Son of Sam,” she explained. “He’s returning to the scene of his crimes, and fantasizing over the corpses. That’s why he’s putting the bodies in places where they can be found. It lets him return to the scene and relive the experience.”

“What is he — a cop?”

She thought back to the botched sting at the RaceTrac. Mr. Clean had vanished from the parking lot without a trace, and as she’d stood in the field and tried to figure out where he’d gone, the solitary wail of a siren had whistled through the still night air.

“No,” she said. “He drives an ambulance.”

They sat in Vick’s car and did a search on her laptop of ambulance companies which serviced Broward County. Six popped up. Vick wrote down their names and addresses on a notepad. She knew there might be more — not every company had a website, or could be found on the Internet — but these six were a good place to start.

She handed the notepad to DuCharme and backed out of her spot.

“What’s the plan?” the detective asked.

“We know that Mr. Clean is Cuban, and that he drives an ambulance for a living,” she said. “We’re going to pay these companies a visit, and see if we can track him down. If we do, we’ll call for backup, and arrest him. Look over that list, and tell me which of those companies is closest.”

DuCharme flipped on the overhead light and went through the list.

“American Medical Services is on Broward Boulevard a few miles from here,” he said. “I’m familiar with them — they’re the biggest EMR service in the area.”

“Sounds like a good place to start.”

American Medical Services was run out of a faceless one-story box in an industrial park. Vick parked in the president’s reserved spot, and they got out and walked up the path. The front door was locked and she hit the buzzer.

Soon they were standing in the dispatch area. A pair of desks and a switchboard were the room’s only furniture. The air was stifling hot and smelled of failed deodorant. A chain-smoking man with brown teeth ended the call he was on to stare at their credentials. A sign on his desk said Please don’t touch me when I’m talking!

“What’s your name?” Vick asked.

“Frank Regli,” the man replied.

“You the dispatcher?” DuCharme asked.

“I’m one of them. How can I help you folks?”

“We need to ask you some questions,” Vick said. “How many ambulance drivers does your company employ?”

Regli scratched the day-old stubble on his chin. “A lot.”

“Please be more specific,” Vick said.

“We have fifty-four drivers the last time I counted. We’re open twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, and run three eight-hour shifts a day.”

“How many of your drivers are Cuban males?” Vick asked.

“Geeze, that’s a good one. At least twenty guys who drive are Cuban.”

“How many work at night?” DuCharme chimed in.

“They all do,” Regli said. “We alternate the times that they drive.”

“I need for you to print up the names of all your drivers,” Vick said.

“How about if I give you a copy of the payroll sheet. That has the drivers’ names and addressees and social security numbers.”

“That will work,” Vick said.

Outside in the car, Vick and DuCharme poured over the AMR payroll sheet. By culling out the non-Latino names, they were left with exactly twenty drivers.

“This is a lot of names, and it’s only the first ambulance company we’ve called on,” DuCharme said. “What do you want to do?”

Vick’s first thought was to call the FBI’s communication center in D.C., and have them run the twenty names through their criminal data bases to see if any matches popped up. If that didn’t work, the bureau could also cross-reference the names against other data bases, including gun registration information, protective and restraining orders, commercial licenses, etc.

It was a good idea, but not thorough enough. The police and FBI had been hunting for Mr. Clean for a quarter century, and been unable to track him down. More than likely, he didn’t have a criminal record.

But Mr. Clean still might have slipped up. Nearly all criminals did. Vick needed to run the names against the Broward Sheriff’s Department criminal data base, and the Miami/ Dade and Palm Beach police data bases as well. Local police departments did not report misdemeanor arrest information to the FBI, and her gut told her that Mr. Clean had done something that had briefly landed him in hot water.

“We’ll need to get lists of drivers from all six companies, take them back to police headquarters, and run background checks on them,” Vick said. “We’ll check the names against local police data bases and see what pops up. We can also get photographs from the Department of Motor Vehicles, and compare them to our composite of Mr. Clean.”

“That could take all night,” DuCharme said.

“You’ve got something else on your social calendar?”

They spent the next two hours driving around the county visiting the other five ambulance companies on the list. Each company closely resembled AMR, right down to the smelly offices and chain-smoking dispatchers. Soon the number of names of Cuban ambulance drivers was well over a hundred.

At a few minutes past midnight, Vick pulled into the parking lot of the last company on the list, Emergency Medical Services. EMS worked out of a storefront on a quiet street in Sunrise, and she could see a man sitting behind a desk inside a shabby office. It had been a long day, and her energy was ebbing away. She smothered a yawn.

“Why don’t I go in and talk to this guy?” DuCharme suggested. “You look worn out.”

He has a nice side, Vick thought. What a surprise.

“That would be great,” she said.

DuCharme got out of the car and headed up the path. He turned around, and walked around to the driver’s side of the car. Vick lowered her window.

“I just remembered something.” Reaching inside his sports jacket, he removed two folded sheets of fax paper, and handed them to her. “These were in the fax machine tray when I got to work. They’re for you.”

“Thanks, Roger.”

DuCharme walked up the path and entered EMS’s office. He showed the dispatcher his badge, and the dispatcher hung up the phone and smiled nervously. It was the way most people acted when confronted by the police, and she paid it no heed.

Vick turned on the overhead light in her car, and read the cover page of the fax. It was from the company in San Francisco that distributed Swiss Sig bayonets in the United States. Per her request, the company had done a records search of the Swiss Sig bayonet that had killed Jewel Ladd’s boyfriend, and sent her the purchase form.

The purchase order was stapled to the cover page. The typeface was faint, and she held it up to the light. The buyer was Adam Ladd, Wayne’s older brother. It was all there — date, time, amount paid, when the bayonet was shipped, tracking number, everything.

She switched off the light and stared into space. The murder weapon had belonged to Adam, not Wayne. Had Adam talked Wayne into killing the mother’s boyfriend? It made sense, and added fuel to her belief that Wayne had been coaxed into committing this horrible crime.

Hearing a voice, she looked up. DuCharme was coming down the path. The detective had someone with him.

Chapter 41

Renaldo was ready to call it a night.

His shift had been filled with car wrecks with multiple injuries. Normally, he enjoyed looking at the twisted bodies as they were put into his ambulance. But tonight he’d gotten no thrill out of seeing the injured. He was taking tomorrow off, and had a full day planned with Wayne. He needed to go home, and get ready.

Then his cell phone rang. It was an ambulance driver that he knew named Sid.

“You hear the news?” Sid asked, sounding scared.

“What news is that?” Renaldo replied.

“An FBI agent and a sheriff’s detective are visiting the ambulance services, asking for lists of the drivers. I think they’re looking for me.”

“What did you do?”

“My girlfriend put a restraining order on me for beating her up, and I violated it.”

Renaldo ended the call knowing he was in trouble. The FBI did not chase men who slapped around their girlfriends, but they did pursue those who cut people’s heads off. He’d pulled into a fast-food restaurant. He worked with two medics named Harry and Tommy. Harry and Tommy got out of the back of the ambulance, and went inside to get something to eat. They asked him if he wanted anything. Renaldo said no.

Turning on the radio, he dialed through the Spanish-speaking stations until he found one playing traditional rumba music, and turned the volume up high. He’d grown up listening to rumba, and it helped him think.

He had known that this day would eventually come. You could not kill prostitutes for as long as he had, and not expect to get caught. Only fools believed that the police would never find them.

Renaldo was not a fool. He had prepared for this day. Inside his house was a shoe box filled with cash; in his garage, a 4-wheel drive SUV with tags registered in his sister’s name that he renewed every year. His getaway car.

He would flee.

He had a place to escape to — a small, cinder block house in the center of the state, not far from a migrant farm camp where his dark skin blended right in. He’d been visiting that little house for years, stocking up on canned food, installing solar panels and a generator, getting ready for the day when he’d need to get off the grid.

That day had come.

But first he needed to cover his tracks.

The police did not know which ambulance company he worked for. If they had known, they would have already arrested him. The police would have to comb through the lists of drivers, and pick “persons of interest”. Then, they’d winnow those lists down to a few names, and haul those drivers in. That was how the law worked.

It would take time, and time was always on a criminal’s side. He had read that somewhere, and committed it to memory.

He would use that time to facilitate his escape.

His shift ended at midnight. His employer, Emergency Medical Services, was located on a back street in Sunrise. He parked the ambulance in the garage behind the building, and said goodnight to Harry and Tommy. Going inside the main office, he signed the log sheet, and struck up a conversation with Joey, the dispatcher.

“I hear the police have been sniffing around,” Renaldo said.

Joey had a cup of coffee in one hand, a smoldering cigarette in the other, his eyes ringed from lack of sleep. His wife had given birth a few weeks ago, and the baby was keeping the parents up at night.

“Who told you that?” Joey asked.

“A driver from another company called me,” Renaldo said.

“They haven’t been by to see me, I can tell you that. It’s probably nothing.”

“You’re probably right.”

Joey took a call on his cell. Renaldo stepped away from the desk, his mind racing. The police and the FBI had not visited EMS yet. It gave him an idea.

Joey told his wife he’d be home in a few hours, and hung up.

“No one told me having kids was this hard,” Joey said. “You have any kids?”

“A son,” Renaldo replied.

“How old?”

“Seventeen.”

“A teenager, huh. He give you much trouble?”

“No, he’s a good boy.”

“You’re lucky. I hear teenagers are murder.”

“Why don’t you go home, and help your wife? I’ll take over for you.”

Joey perked up. “Seriously? You know how to handle the calls?”

“I’ve subbed before. Go,” Renaldo said.

Joey did not need any more encouragement. He grabbed his cigarettes and cell phone off the desk and was out the door in a flash. Renaldo stood by the window and watched Joey’s car peel out of the lot. He told himself it just might work.

Renaldo went outside. Harry and Tommy’s vehicles were gone. Popping the trunk of his car, he removed the Taurus .410 handgun, and went back inside.

He sat at Joey’s desk, the chair still warm. He placed an upside-down waste basket beneath the desk, and rested the Taurus on top of it, within the reach of his hand. Then he waited for the law to come calling.

Twenty minutes later, a blue Audi drove into the EMS lot and parked. Two shadowy figures sat in the front seats. Renaldo picked up the phone on the desk and pretended to be talking, his eyes glued to the figures.

The passenger door on the Audi opened. A light came on, illuminating the car’s interior. Behind the wheel sat the cute blond FBI agent he’d seen outside the Broward Library. She was very young-looking, and perky. A keeper, he decided.

A man climbed out of the Audi, and headed up the path. The man had a detective’s badge pinned to the pocket of his sports jacket, and had also been outside the library.

Renaldo continued to talk into the dead phone. For the first time, he noticed the framed wedding photograph of Joey and his wife sitting on the desk. If the detective came into the office and saw it, he’d know Renaldo wasn’t the dispatcher.

Renaldo cursed silently to himself.

The detective suddenly turned around, and walked back to the Audi. He gave something to the cute FBI agent, which led to a brief conversation. Renaldo slipped the framed photo into a drawer.

The detective came back up the path. Renaldo detected a slight lift to his step. Did the detective want the FBI agent? It certainly looked that way. Knowing this made her that much more desirable to Renaldo, and strengthened his resolve to possess her.

The detective entered the office. Renaldo said goodbye and hung up the phone.

“Can I help you?” Renaldo said pleasantly.

“I’m Detective DuCharme with the Broward Sheriff’s Department,” his visitor said. “I need to get a list of your ambulance drivers.”

“Is something wrong?”

“I’ll ask the questions, okay?”

“Certainly. I’m happy to help if I can.”

“What’s your name?”

“Joey Gonzalez,” Renaldo replied.

“What do you do here?”

“I’m the dispatcher. My father owns the company.”

“How long have you worked here, Joey?”

“All of my life.”

“How well do you know your employees?”

“Very well.”

“I’m looking for a Cuban ambulance driver who’s been linked to a series of abductions of teenage boys. Two of the boys ended up dead.”

“How horrible.”

“We need to find this guy before he kills again. The driver is in his forties. He’s about my height, and powerfully built. Ring any bells?”

“That description matches several of our drivers. Can you tell me anything else about him?”

“He’s a loner, and probably isn’t married,” the detective said. “He may have gotten into trouble with the law before.”

Renaldo leaned back in his chair and rubbed his chin. It surprised him that the detective hadn’t asked to see some form of identification, but instead had chosen to take him at his word. The detective was either very tired, or very stupid, Renaldo thought.

“There’s a driver named Renaldo Devine who matches your description,” Renaldo said. “He’s a bit of strange one. Always talking about beating up women.”

Detective DuCharme perked up. “Has he ever been arrested?”

“I don’t know. If he has, he didn’t tell me.”

“Does he live alone?”

“Yes.”

“Ever married?”

“No. He has no close friends that I know of.”

“Have you seen Devine recently?”

“He ended his shift a half-hour ago. Said he was going to a bar down the road for a beer. He likes to drink.”

DuCharme smiled knowingly. He’d swallowed the bait whole.

“How about taking us to this bar, and pointing Renaldo out?”

“Us?”

“Me and my partner. She’s in the car outside.”

“Of course. Give me a moment to forward the incoming calls,” Renaldo said.

Renaldo picked up the phone and punched meaningless numbers into the keypad. DuCharme moved to the door and went outside. Renaldo grabbed the Taurus, and followed him.

Together, they walked down the path. Renaldo stayed a few steps back, and dangled the Taurus by his side, letting the detective’s body shield it from the FBI agent sitting behind the wheel of the Audi.

The parking lot had several low wattage halogen lights. Nearing the Audi, Renaldo got a good look at the FBI agent. She was much prettier than he’d thought, and looked remarkably young. He couldn’t have asked for a more perfect victim.

DuCharme walked around to the driver’s door. Renaldo stayed glued to the detective, his gun hidden. The FBI agent lowered her window, and poked her head out.

“Who’s this?” she asked.

“This is Joey Gonzalez, the dispatcher for EMS,” the detective replied. “You’re not going to believe this, but I think I found Mr. Clean.”

“You’re kidding,” she said.

“Nope. He’s down the road, getting drunk in a bar.”

The detective’s voice was filled with swagger. Trying to impress the FBI agent, Renaldo thought. Lifting his arm, he placed the Taurus to the side of the detective’s head, then paused to look at the FBI agent before pulling the trigger.

Chapter 42

Linderman could not sleep. Each time he started to doze off, he saw Crutch brutally killing his mothers and three sisters, the dream a loop of horror that would not end. It was said that people only dreamed in black and white, yet his dreams were filled with red.

He dragged himself out of bed. He’d rented a room at the Oakmont Hotel three blocks from the Allegheny River. It was small and had paper thin walls. Each time his neighbor flushed the toilet, it sounded like lightening had struck the building.

He ate the remains of a take-out dinner from Outback while watching CNN. The food was cold and tasted like cardboard. He wasn’t hungry, only the scale in the bathroom said that he’d lost five pounds. Looking in the mirror, he’d seen bones where before there had been nothing but skin.

It was not supposed to be like this. The good guys were not supposed to turn into the mad men. Their thoughts, and deeds, were supposed to protect them from that.

Only it hadn’t worked out that way. He was losing it, his thoughts no longer under his control. He wondered what he’d done to deserve such a fate.

Top of the hour, headline news. The lead story was out of Fort Lauderdale. A pretty brunette stood on a sidewalk, clutching a microphone while staring into the camera. Behind her, a riot of swirling lights and police cars blocking the street. He jacked up the volume, knowing something terrible had happened.

“It’s a grisly scene here tonight in Fort Lauderdale,” the reporter intoned. “A little over an hour ago, the police received an anonymous tip that a headless man was sitting behind the wheel of a car in front of a local ambulance service called American Eagle. Upon arriving at the scene, the police discovered the car and the man, whose head was found stuffed in a garbage can. The victim has been identified as homicide Detective Roger DuCharme of the Broward Sheriff’s Department.”

They cut away to a coiffed CNN newscaster sitting in a studio. “Do the police have any suspects in the killing?” the newscaster asked.

“They’re not saying,” the reporter replied, the screen splitting so that both their faces were showing. “We have learned that Detective DuCharme was working on a case involving a serial killer known as Mr. Clean. Whether or not Detective DuCharme’s killing is related to that case remains to be seen.”

“I see activity directly behind you,” the newscaster said. “Can you tell us what’s going on?”

The reporter turned around, showing her back to the camera. Across the street, a CSI team was dusting a car for prints and vacuuming the floor mats for fibers. The team wore surgical masks, and looked like doctors performing surgery. Linderman got out of his chair and approached the TV. Kneeling, he brought his face up to the screen. The car the CSI team was checking was a blue Audi.

Vick drove a blue Audi.

He took his cell phone off the night table and called Rachel’s home number. Her voice mail picked up. He tried her cell phone, and got the same message. His next call was to Moody. The sheriff of Broward County answered on the first ring.

“Sheriff Moody here,” a somber voice said.

“This is Ken Linderman. I’m watching a news report on CNN about Roger DuCharme’s murder. Can you tell me what’s going on?”

“It was Mr. Clean,” Moody said. “He shot DuCharme and cut his head off. He also got your girl.”

“You mean Vick?”

“Yeah. He left a note in DuCharme’s pocket, boasting about it.”

Linderman brought his hand up to his face and covered his eyes.

“We’re working on a lead,” Moody said. “Vick and DuCharme spent the past few hours visiting different ambulance companies asking for lists of drivers. Since we found Roger in the parking lot of an ambulance company called American Eagle, I’m thinking that Mr. Clean might be on their payroll. I’m going to have all the drivers pulled in, and questioned. Care to join me?”

“I’m in Pittsburgh,” Linderman heard himself say.

“Suit yourself. I’ll let you know what I turn up.”

The phone went dead in his hand.

He threw on his clothes and went outside. The chilly night air stung his face, and he stuck his hands deep into his pockets. He walked down a broken sidewalk, following the roaring sound of the river until he was standing by its edge. The black water was high, and moving along at a powerful clip. He longed to jump in, and let himself be carried away to another place. Just to escape this madness.

He took a step back, and the frightening urge went away.

His thoughts turned to Rachel. He had turned over this investigation to her against his better judgement. His gut had told him that she wasn’t ready, yet he’d gone and done it anyway.

He asked himself why.

It took a while, but then he knew. Rachel wasn’t just an agent who worked for him. She was a substitute for Danni. They were alike in so many ways — young, headstrong, ready to take on the world without truly understanding the consequences. Like Danni, there wasn’t much he wouldn’t do to help Vick succeed. That was why he’d done it. And now, he was probably never going to see Vick again. Just like Danni.

It was more than Linderman could stand. He buried his face in his hands, and wept.

Part III

The Program

Chapter 43

Linderman’s cell phone rang at 6:00 a.m. It was Moody, calling with an update.

“We started pulling American Eagle’s drivers right after you and I spoke last night,” the sheriff said. “We’re taking them down to headquarters after their shifts end, and interviewing them.”

Fully dressed, Linderman sat on the edge of the bed in his motel room, facing the boxy TV. He’d stayed up all night watching reruns of Flipper and the old Lucille Ball Show. They were mindless enough to stop him from having any more hallucinations.

“Anyone stand out?” the FBI agent asked.

“No, they were all squeaky clean and had air tight alibis. We still have two more shifts of drivers to talk to,” Moody said.

“You’re interviewing the ambulance drivers a shift at a time? Mr. Clean might catch wind of what’s going on, and run.”

“I know that,” the sheriff said testily. “American Eagle runs twenty percent of the ambulances in Broward. We couldn’t pull all of the drivers off the streets without jeopardizing innocent people’s lives. So we’re grabbing the drivers when they finish their shifts. It’s not the way I’d prefer doing this, but I didn’t have any other choice.”

Another setback. Mr. Clean had eluded the law for twenty-five years, and was going to be gone before they got to him. Vick was doomed if he didn’t do something.

“Between you and me, I got a bad feeling about this,” Moody said.

“Why? What did you find?” Linderman asked.

“It’s what we didn’t find. There was no blood in the parking lot at American Eagle, or in Vick’s Audi. We’ve searched the grounds. Nothing.”

“So DuCharme wasn’t killed in the parking lot where you found him.”

“No, sir.”

“Do you think Mr. Clean purposely dumped DuCharme’s body at American Eagle?”

“Yes.”

“So this is all just a smoke screen.”

“Yes, again. But I still have to interview the American Eagle drivers, just to make sure.”

Linderman went to the window of his room and parted the curtain. Outside it was gray with a light mist falling. He could hear the frustration in Moody’s voice. There was no worse feeling than knowing you were being set up, and not being able to do anything about it. “Let me tell you why I’m in Pittsburgh,” he said. “There’s an inmate at Starke Prison who knows a lot about Mr. Clean, but won’t share the information with me. I’m trying to find evidence to nail this guy, and make him talk. I’ll call you if I find anything.”

“Same here. Good luck.”

“You, too.”

Linderman waited until sunrise to drive to the Crutchfield residence. The air was chilly, and reminded him of a fall Virginia morning. He used to live for days like this, rising early to run on the tender paths in the woods near his home, the sound of fallen leaves crackling beneath his running shoes, his breath misting before his face. He often wondered if he would ever return to that life, or would remain stuck in the brutal heat of South Florida, doing penance for sins beyond his comprehension.

The tree blocking the driveway was gone, in its place, a police cruiser. A silver-haired officer stood outside the cruiser, having a look around. Linderman parked behind the cruiser and got out. The officer dropped his hand on his gun like Wyatt Earp.

“Who are you, and what are you doing here?” the officer asked.

“Special Agent Ken Linderman with the FBI.”

The officer reviewed Linderman’s ID with a sheepish look on his face.

“Sorry,” he said. “We got a call from a neighbor last night that there was a person trespassing on the Crutchfield property. They sent me out to have a look around.”

“It sure took you long enough to get here,” Linderman said.

“They don’t pay me to be brave. Was that you?”

Linderman nodded.

“Do you have a warrant to be out here?”

Linderman shook his head.

“It’s probably none of my business, but why were you snooping around?”

“A family was murdered in that house. I know the person who did it. Now I need to find the evidence to prove he did it.”

“Was it Jason?” the officer asked.

“Yes. Did you know him?”

“I went through school with his older sister, Madeline. She talked about Jason. He was a strange one, that’s for sure. You still need a warrant to go on the property.”

“I don’t have the time to get a warrant,” Linderman said. “One of my agents was abducted by one of Jason’s friends. I need to move fast.”

The officer blew out his cheeks. He had red cheeks and a round Irish face, and looked well past retirement age. Either he’d lost his life savings in the stock market and had to keep on working, or he really liked his job. Or maybe it was a little of both.

“My name’s Justin Fitch,” the officer said.

They shook hands. The look in Fitch’s face said he was going to play ball. He watched Fitch walk to the back of his cruiser and unlock the trunk. Taking out a pair of bolt clippers, he cut through the chain holding the gate shut.

“Follow me in your car,” Fitch said.

They parked on the front lawn of the old Victorian house. The swing on the front porch was still moving back and forth, the ghosts occupying it waiting to be set free.

Linderman followed Fitch up the creaky steps to the front door. He prayed that he did not experience any more hallucinations while in the police officer’s company. It was the last thing he needed to have happen right now.

Fitch tested the front door. He placed his shoulder against it, and gave a push. The hinges splintered against his weight, the door swinging in.

“I always figured Jason was up to no good,” Fitch said. “One day during his sophomore year, he came to school and announced that his mother and sisters had moved away to Canada, and left him to fend for himself. It never smelled right.”

“What kind of family were they?”

“Quiet. They mostly kept to themselves.”

They stepped through the front door. The smell hit them like a heavy punch. Dead air, held captive for decades, the rotting essence of life as potent as a toxic cloud. They retreated to the porch and both took deep breaths.

“Sweet mother of God,” Fitch proclaimed.

“We need to open the place, and let it air out,” Linderman said.

“You think there are corpses in there?”

“Could be.”

The porch was wraparound, and they walked around to the back of the house, their feet stepping on warped boards. The back door of the house had a small window, and Fitch punched out the glass with his gun, reached inside, and released the lock.

“You go first,” the officer said.

Covering his face with a hanky, Linderman walked into a large kitchen, and quickly opened the windows that weren’t stuck. The kitchen had a lived-in feel: A stack of moldy dishes filled the sink, the open cupboards lined with cans of food with peeling labels. On the counter beside the sink sat a platter holding the skeletal remains of an animal that resembled a large chicken. He’d killed them during dinner, Linderman thought.

Linderman glanced through the open door onto the porch. Fitch was staying outside. Either the officer didn’t want to come in, or was purposely staying out of the way.

He was starting to gag. He’d read about the long-term effects of breathing bad air. It could cause your lungs to harden, if you weren’t careful.

He didn’t care. He needed to find the dining room, and confirm his suspicions that this was indeed where Crutch had ended his mother and sisters’ lives.

Crossing the kitchen, he pushed open a swinging door with his shoulder, and stuck his head into the next room. It looked like a bomb had gone off inside it. Splintered chairs lay upturned on the floor and several framed paintings had fallen off the walls. There was broken glass everywhere he looked.

He’d found the dining room.

Stepping inside, he let the door shut behind him. The dining room table contained four dusty place settings. A round platter sat in the center of the table that was the right size for a cake. He’d waited until his mother had served dessert, Linderman thought.

He walked around the perimeter of the room, careful not to disturb anything. The walls were filled with gashes and tears. Crutch hadn’t just wanted to kill his family; he’d tried to destroy the room as well. A true rampage.

He halted by a dusty cabinet in the corner. Something was sticking out from beneath. Taking a handkerchief from his pocket, he knelt down, and carefully pulled the object out. It was a broken baseball bat.

He’d found the murder weapon.

He stood up. An uncontrollable shudder ran through his body. Evil was a strange beast; its presence could be felt long after the animal had left. The dining room was filled with such a presence. Like the spirits outside on the porch, the evil had not left.

He went outside to the back porch and filled his lungs with sweet-tasting air. The mist had turned into a dull, drenching rain that dulled the landscape to the eye. Fitch leaned against the porch railing, holding his hat in his hands.

“Find anything?” Fitch asked.

“Their last meal,” Linderman said.

“That’s a good start.”

“And the murder weapon.”

“Even better. What about the bodies?”

“That’s next.”

Linderman took another deep breath before heading back inside.

Chapter 44

He checked the upstairs first. There were four bedrooms and one shared bathroom with an old-fashioned claw-foot tub. Each bedroom occupied a different corner of the upstairs, with its own distinct view of the grounds. They shared the same decorating scheme, with wallpaper and furniture coverings straight out of a Laura Ashley catalogue. Each room also contained a four-poster bed and matching antique furniture.

He was mildly surprised. He’d half-expected to find the bodies of Crutch’s mother and three sisters lying in their beds with their heads bashed in. He’d seen that before with serial killers, a desire to take the victims and return them to some normal setting, as it to separate them from the horrible violence which ended their time on this earth.

He also checked each of the room’s walk-in closets to make sure the bodies were not hanging from a hook, or the ceiling. He’d seen that as well.

Walking downstairs, he realized that he’d not seen a boy’s bedroom, and found himself wondering where Crutch had slept.

The air had cleared enough to breath freely. He checked the den, living room and a small sitting area, but did not find the bodies. The rooms were coated with a thick veil of dust but still remarkably intact, the destruction contained to the dining room.

The house had to have a basement. In the kitchen he found a door that led down a darkened flight of stairs. Rifling the kitchen drawers, he removed a pack of matches and a box of birthday candles. He lit one of the candles, and headed downstairs.

A mad scrambling of tiny feet heralded his approach. Rats. Stopping at the bottom, he did a slow three-sixty, and took in his surroundings. The space beneath the house was dank and low-ceilinged. On one wall, a washer and dryer. On the opposite wall, a work area with an assortment of hanging tools, and a shelving unit lined with coffee cans containing rusted nails of varying sizes. Beside the washing machine was a door. The words NO ENTRY — THIS MEANS YOU! was printed across the door in white letters, the handwriting child-like. He’d found Crutch’s bedroom.

He tested the door and found it locked. He tried kicking it down and got nowhere. He checked the work area for an appropriate tool. The best he could find was a small axe. The candle in his hand had burned down. He used it to light another, then went to work on the door. The wood was old, and fought him every step of the way.

“Hey, is that you?” Fitch called from the top of the stairs.

“Yes,” Linderman replied, breathing heavily.

“You find something?”

“I think so.”

“I called a judge I know, and told him I had reason to believe there had been a murder on this property. He’s issuing a search warrant right now.”

Fitch had just saved him a lot of trouble and headaches.

“Thank you,” he called up the stairs.

“No problem. Let me know if I can do anything,” the officer replied.

“Do you have a flashlight handy?”

“In my car. You want me to get it?”

“Please.”

Soon Fitch came down the stairs shining a megawatt flashlight. He directed the flashlight’s beam at the door without having to be told.

“You looked kind of funny holding that little candle,” Fitch remarked.

Linderman smiled grimly. It had occurred to him that he was about to witness something that no profiler within the FBI had ever seen before — the lair of a serial killer as a young boy. Serial killers dark fantasies started at a tender age, and became more violent and disturbing as they grew older and matured. Now, he was going to see the things which had affected young Jason Crutchfield, and led him to kill his family. Had Rachel Vick’s life not hung in the balance, he would have been giddy with excitement.

Finally the door gave way, and he laid it across the washing machine.

“You want to go first?” Fitch asked.

“Please,” Linderman replied.

Fitch handed Linderman the flashlight.

“Be my guest,” the officer said.

The room was not what Linderman had expected. Meticulously neat and tidy, there were no visible signs of a diseased mind. The bed was made, the floor free of trash. The shelves were lined with teenage bric-a-brac, including stacks of baseball cards and a pair of ping pong paddles. The room also had many comforts, including a stereo system, a portable TV set with rabbit ears that sat on an upturned crate, and a small fridge.

“You see the bodies?” Fitch asked, standing in the doorway.

“They don’t appear to be here,” Linderman replied.

“Crap — there’s my phone. Let me take this.”

“Go ahead.”

Fitch went upstairs to take the call.

The closet came next. It was a small space with stone walls. A half dozen denim shirts and several pairs of stone-washed blue jeans hung from a metal pole. There was one navy sports jacket and gray flannel pair of pants that looked like church clothes. It was all terribly normal, with no signs of problems.

Something wasn’t right here. Crutch hadn’t gone from a normal teenage kid to a serial killer overnight. It had happened over time, the pressure building slowly, until one day he’d erupted like a volcano, and all the anger inside had spilled out.

He rechecked the bedroom. Jammed in the corner was a desk with a stack of school books. Each book had a paper book cover designed to protect it from use. Written on the cover of the top book were the words SOCIAL STUDIES.

Linderman opened the book to a random page, and found himself staring at a page with the words The Nine Satanic Statements written across the top. He shut the book, and removed the cover. The Satanic Bible by Anton Szandor Lavey. Crutch had been reading about devil worship when he was supposed to be studying history.

He removed the paper covers from the rest of the stack, and checked the spines. Each was a book on Satanism and occult worship.

He put the books back into the stack the way he’d found them. The room would need to be photographed by a CSI exactly as he’d discovered it.

A book bag lay beneath the desk. It was black and had escaped his attention. He pulled the bag out and opened it. It was filled with spiral notebooks, the words SOCIAL STUDIES, ENGLISH LIT, MATH, SCIENCE written on the covers.

Crutch’s school notes.

Diaries and personal writings said more about a person’s mind state of mind than anything else. He was finally going to get to the root of what had driven Crutch over the edge. He started with the notebook that said ENGLISH LIT.

The first twenty pages were notes about the novels of Ernest Hemingway and John Steinbeck. Then the notes stopped, replaced by drawings of a crouching, devilish figure with pointed ears holding a sword dripping with bright red blood. Every remaining page of the notebook contained the same drawing.

The other notebooks were identical. After about twenty pages, the school notes ended, and were replaced by the devilish figure.

The notebooks went back into the bag. He placed the bag on the bed so the CSI team wouldn’t miss it. Behind the bed was a black wall with a peculiar shadow. He leaned in for a closer look.

Not a shadow, but a drawing. The same devilish figure, only much larger, almost human size. It’s texture looked odd, and he ran his finger across the outline.

It had been burned into the wall.

He heard a noise and spun around. His flashlight’s beam captured the man standing on the other side of the bedroom. It was young Crutch, holding a baseball bat.

It felt like a dream, and maybe it was, Linderman running up the basement stairs after Crutch, knowing he couldn’t change what was about to happen, but still wanting to try. Thinking perhaps that it would still lead to saving Vick, not knowing why.

He froze in the doorway to the dining room. Crutch’s mother and three sisters sat at the dining room table, chatting amicably while enjoying dinner. Crutch stood at the head of the table, yielding the bat, screaming like a banshee.

Linderman blinked, and everything changed.

The four women lay dead on the floor in their own blood. Crutch was bashing the furniture and the walls with the bat, gnashing his teeth like a lunatic. He somehow looked bigger and more menacing than he really was, the veins on his neck bulging like a weight lifter.

Linderman blinked again.

The dining room was now empty, the dead women gone. Linderman went to the window and stared out onto the front lawn. Crutch was dragging his mother’s lifeless body across the grass by the armpits. Taking her away to be buried.

He ran outside the house and down the creaky steps. He had to see where Crutch was taking his mother’s body. That was why he had come here. To find the bodies.

Halfway to the barn, he stopped running. Crutch and his mother had disappeared in the downpour.

“Hey, are you okay?” Fitch called out.

Linderman stopped and turned around. Fitch stood on the porch with a worried look on his face.

“Do you have cadaver dogs?” the FBI agent asked.

“The department’s got two good ones.”

“Get them.”

Chapter 45

“Wake up. Breakfast time.”

Wayne Ladd’s eyelids snapped open. Renaldo stood in the open doorway, wearing his trademark gym shorts and no shirt, his upper torso glistening from his workout. His eyes were smiling, and he almost looked happy.

“What’s on the menu?” Wayne asked.

“Scrambled eggs, bacon, and whole wheat toast. I squeezed some fresh orange juice, too. I also bought some strawberry preserves.”

Wayne heard his stomach growl. Despite everything that had happened, he had not lost his appetite. The meals Renaldo were cooking for him were delicious, and gave Wayne something to look forward to, his day a mindless repetition of watching sick porno movies and listening to loud music.

Wayne tossed back the sheet and threw his legs over the side of the bed. The room where Renaldo made him sleep was no bigger than a closet and without windows. Like a prison cell, only worse, his lack of contact with anyone but Renaldo driving him crazy. A naked lightbulb dangled from the ceiling, and could only be turned on from the hall.

Renaldo sniffed the air. “The toast is burning.”

“Better not burn the house down,” Wayne joked.

“Put some clothes on and join me.”

Renaldo pushed himself off the doorframe and walked away. Wayne sat motionless for several seconds, expecting his captor to come back and padlock the door, just like he had every time when Wayne was by himself.

Only Renaldo didn’t come back and shut the door. Wayne nearly pinched himself. Was he dreaming? It felt way too normal — being woken up, the smell of breakfast, the way Renaldo had addressed him. Like his old man used to do before he died.

Wayne got up and started to get dressed. He looked for his clothes, which he threw onto a chair each night before going to sleep. They were gone. In their place was a brand-new pair of chinos and a navy polo shirt that still had the tags on them. He unfolded the clothes and held them up for inspection.

“Oh, wow,” he said.

It had been a long time since he’d worn new clothes. Most of his wardrobe were hand-me-downs from his brother. Not that he’d ever complained, but wearing his dead brother’s clothes had started to be a drag. He needed to become his own man.

He tore off the tags. Renaldo had paid full-price for the threads. It made him want to like the guy, only he couldn’t get the head in the refrigerator out of his mind.

“You coming?” Renaldo called from the other side of the house.

“Just getting dressed. I’ll be there in a second.”

Wayne slipped on the clothes. They fit. He wasn’t supposed to feel happy — he was a prisoner — yet he couldn’t help but smile. The clothes were way cool.

Wayne walked down the hall to the kitchen, smelling breakfast. In the kitchen he found Renaldo standing at the stove, doling out the food onto a pair of plastic plates. His captor nodded approvingly as Wayne entered.

“The clothes look good on you,” he said.

“You shouldn’t have,” Wayne said.

The remark drew a blank stare. The humor was lost on him.

“Where did you get them?” Wayne asked.

“The men’s shop at Dillard’s. They have nice things.” Renaldo handed Wayne a steaming plate and a tall glass filled with orange juice. “Have a seat at the table. I’ll be with you in a moment.”

Wayne moved into the adjacent dining area, which consisted of a round table with four high back chairs. A blond-haired woman sat at the head of the table, facing him. Small and pretty, she was securely bound to the chair, and had a wild, helpless look. She opened her mouth and tried to speak, only a gag ball prevented the words from coming out.

Wayne gasped. “Who’s that?”

“Your new girlfriend,” Renaldo said.

Wayne’s plate hit the table with a soft thud. He took the chair next to the captive woman, and tried not to make eye contact. He wanted to help her, but had no idea how to accomplish that. She was in just as bad a situation as he was. Probably worse.

No longer hungry, he moved his food around the plate. The silverware was made of transparent plastic. Renaldo still didn’t trust him with anything sharp. He was still being tested, and needed to watch everything he said and did.

Renaldo sat down so he faced the woman, and started to eat. A mountain of scrambled eggs filled his plate along with a towering stack of bacon. He washed down a mouthful of food with orange juice and wiped his mouth on his sleeve.

“Who is she?” Wayne asked.

“Her name is Rachel,” Renaldo said. “I met her last night. I thought she was very pretty. She reminded me of an actress in the movies. I couldn’t remember her name.”

Wayne lifted his eyes to stare at Vick. She did have a face out of the movies. Not just pretty, but genuine. In a small way, she reminded him of his girlfriend Amber.

“Reese Witherspoon,” Wayne said.

Renaldo slapped his hand on the table. “That’s the one. She was in the movie with the little dog. They could be sisters, yes?”

Wayne nodded woodenly. He saw tears well in the corners of Vick’s eyes. She had to know she was fucked.

“Yes,” the teenager said.

“Have you tried the OJ? I squeezed it myself. It’s very good.”

Wayne lifted his glass of orange juice and took a long swallow. It was a strange combination of sweet and tangy. His heart was pounding against his rib cage, his mind racing. He had to help this poor woman, only he didn’t know how.

“How did you meet her?” he asked.

“She was looking for me,” Renaldo replied.

“What do you mean? Is she a cop?”

“FBI agent. She and her partner thought they could capture me, only I turned the tables on them. It’s too bad you weren’t there.”

Wayne drained his glass. The drink was having a strange effect on him. He no longer felt scared or intimidated by the situation. If anything, he felt empowered, and ready to take on the world. It was a wonderful feeling, and he heard himself laugh.

“Is something wrong?” Renaldo asked.

“I just think it’s funny that you put a gag ball in her mouth,” Wayne said. “What are you afraid of — her talking you to death?”

Renaldo roared with laughter. “Very good!”

“Why don’t we untie her, and let her run around the house. Then we can try and catch her. It would be fun.”

“You mean like a game,” his captor said.

“Yeah. First one to catch her wins a prize.”

“What would it be?”

“I don’t know — you still got the head in the fridge?”

Renaldo let out another roar. “Very good, but I have a better idea.”

“What’s that?”

Renaldo went to the kitchen, and returned with a plastic pitcher of OJ. He came around the table so he was behind Vick, and with his free hand, removed the tie holding the gag ball in her mouth. Vick spit the ball onto the table and glanced fearfully at Wayne.

“Open your mouth,” Renaldo said.

Vick shook her head defiantly. Renaldo grabbed her by the back of her hair, and jerked her head back. He brought the pitcher directly over her face.

“Do it, or I will break your neck,” Renaldo said.

Vick parted her lips. Renaldo poured the OJ in a long stream into her mouth, then grabbed her jaw and forced her mouth shut.

“Swallow it,” he commanded.

Vick gulped the liquid down while twisting violently in her chair. Renaldo released his grip on her, and returned to his chair. He resumed eating his breakfast.

“What did you just give her?” Wayne asked.

“The drink is spiked with drugs and vodka,” Renaldo said. “She’ll be out soon.”

“Was that in my drink, too?”

Renaldo nodded. Wayne tried to protest, but the words wouldn’t come out. His tongue had grown thick and the room was spinning. He was going to pass out, and he had the foresight to move his plate before resting his head on the table.

Chapter 46

Linderman had to wait for the cadaver dogs.

The dogs were on the other side of the county with their police handler, trying to find an Alzheimer’s patient who’d slipped out of a nursing home and ambled off into the woods. Wearing a bathrobe and slippers, it was assumed the patient had crawled into a cave or a hole when it had grown cold, and died from exposure. Now his body needed to be found and put to rest.

Linderman had still asked the trainers to hurry. He was running out of time.

He stood on the front porch with Fitch and watched the never-ending rain. Fitch had a habit of taking off his hat whenever he was standing still. It added gravity to his words, even though he rarely spoke.

“I know it’s none of my business, but would you tell me what happened down in the basement earlier?” Fitch asked.

“I saw Jason Crutchfield,” Linderman said.

Fitch did a double-take. “You mean a ghost?”

“I don’t know what it was, but I saw him.”

“That’s downright spooky.”

Linderman thought he heard a noise and shifted his attention to the road. Being an FBI agent had a lot of pluses. For one thing, people rarely questioned his sanity, even at times when it probably should have been questioned.

“Were you aware that Jason was involved with Satanic worship?” Linderman asked when he realized it wasn’t a car.

“That’s news to me. How did you find that out?”

“There’s evidence of it in his bedroom. He quotes the laws from the Satanic Bible in his notebooks. There was also a creepy cartoon character he drew over and over. It’s burned into the wall of his room by his desk.”

“Burned? Are you sure?”

That was a good question. Linderman wasn’t sure what was real and what wasn’t real anymore, the two sides of his brain melding into one, the hallucinations blending into what was absolute and concrete. He said, “Maybe I need to look again.”

They entered the house and headed downstairs to the basement. Linderman wondered how long Crutch had lived in this black hole as a boy. A year? Two? Had he been banished here for a reason? Or had his mother and three sisters just wanted him out of the way, their lives inconvenienced by the presence of an adolescent boy?

They entered Crutch’s bedroom. Holding Fitch’s flashlight, Linderman pointed the beam at the wall behind the desk, and the menacing character with pointed ears materialized before their eyes. Fitch ran his fingertip across it.

“You’re right — it’s burned into the concrete.”

“Any idea what it is?”

“No, sir.”

Linderman took one of the spiral notebooks off the desk, and headed upstairs. Stopping in the kitchen, he flipped the notebook open to the middle. Both pages were consumed with drawings of the same character burned into the wall. He photographed the character with his cell phone, and emailed the image to FBI headquarters with the request that the analysts in D.C. run it through the bureau’s image data bank.

The FBI had many unique data bases for catching criminals. There were data bases for DNA samples, fingerprints, facial recognition, known aliases, and reoccurring images in violent crimes. Linderman was hoping that the image he’d found in Crutch’s room had appeared in other crimes, and might lead him to understand its significance.

Five minutes later, he had his answer.

The image was the symbol for the Pagan Motorcycle Gang, and was of a mythical figure Surtr, or “the black one.” That was all the information the bureau had.

He called Vaughn Wood in Jacksonville. The Pagans were one of the motorcycle gangs that Wood had run with during his Little Jesus days. Linderman hoped Wood could shed more light on the image’s significance.

“You back in South Florida?” Wood asked by way of greeting.

“I’m in Pittsburgh. You heard about Vick.”

“Saw it on the news this morning. I thought I was going to puke. Are you having any luck finding her?”

“I’m chasing down a lead right now. I need for you to tell me about the Pagan Motorcycle gang’s association with Surtr, the black one.”

“That’s an odd request.”

“I’m at Crutch’s family home. There’s an image of Surtr burned into the wall in Crutch’s bedroom, and Crutch’s highschool notebooks are filled with drawings of him as well.”

“Well, that explains a lot of things.”

“What does it mean?”

“It means that Crutch went over to the dark side a long time ago. Surtr is an evil god from Norse mythology. He looks small, yet can spring up at any time, and become a jotunn, or a giant. According to mythology, at the end of the world Surtr will wage war and defeat all the gods and burn the world with fire.”

“So he’s a killer.”

“An evil killer, without pity for human life. He’s also a cannibal and a vampire. The Pagans worshiped Surtr and considered him the embodiment of everything they stood for. Part of joining the club was swearing your allegiance to him.”

“So Crutch is possessed by Surtr.”

“I wouldn’t use the word possessed.”

“Why not?”

“I have to go back to my experience with the Pagans. Those boys were evil because they wanted to be. They wanted to hurt and kill people.”

“So they were evil before they found Surtr.”

“That’s right. I did a lot of soul-searching when I ran with the Pagans. I came to realize that good and evil are impulses buried within a person’s soul. You can choose to be good, or choose to be evil. It’s a free choice.”

Impulses. The word made Linderman think back to his meeting with Crutch in the chaplain’s study. He had wanted to kill Crutch for the things he’d said about Danni, and that impulse had tripped him over to the dark side. It had let him think evil thoughts, while also seeing a dark side to himself which he hadn’t known existed. There was no way to explain the things which had happened to him.

But there was an escape. He would stop thinking about revenge and retribution, and go back to the man he’d always been. He was not a killer, nor was he an avenging angel. He was an FBI agent, and had sworn to carry out the law. That man.

“This has been very helpful,” Linderman said.

“Glad I could help,” Wood replied.

The back door opened, and Fitch stepped into the kitchen.

“The cadaver dogs are here,” Fitch said.

Chapter 47

Linderman ended the call and followed Fitch outside. A long bed silver pickup was parked in the yard. In the back of the truck were a pair of dog crates containing two eager German Shepherds. Beside the truck stood a barrel-chested, shaven-headed African-American man dressed in battle fatigues. In his hand were a pair of long leashes.

Fitch made the introductions. The handler’s name was Raheem Gleason, only everyone called him Doc. The dogs names were Tuffy and Bones.

“Did you find the elderly man you were looking for?” Linderman asked.

“Sure did. My dogs are the best,” Doc replied.

“Was he dead?”

“Naw, he was still kicking. So, how many bodies are we looking for?”

“Four,” Linderman said.

Doc scowled. “Who the hell is going to dig “em up?”

Fitch fidgeted uncomfortably. Linderman had assumed that the officer had called the Oakmont Police Department and asked for an excavation team to come out after he’d requested the cadaver dogs. That was the order of go when searching for corpses. Fitch pulled out his cell phone, and walked out of earshot.

“Dumb ass cops,” Doc muttered under his breath. He opened the crates and leashed his dogs. His personality changed as they jumped to the ground and glued themselves to his legs. Like a proud father showing off his offspring.

“I always wondered when I’d get a call to come out to this place,” Doc said.

“Why’s that?” Linderman asked.

“Jason Crutchfield was warped. One time in highschool he offered to write a term paper for me if I’d let him tie me up to a chair. I said no thanks.”

“Smart move.”

“You have any idea where the bodies are?”

“All we know is that they’re somewhere on the property.”

Doc walked around to the side of his pickup and opened the door. He returned holding a handful of white flags similar to the ones used by the power company to mark the location of underground wires. He handed the flags to Linderman.

“What are these for?” the FBI agent asked.

“This place used to have lots of animals living on it. Horses, dogs, even a couple of cows, if I remember right,” Doc explained. “More than likely the family buried them on the grounds when they died. My dogs will pick up those scents as well, and we’ll have to mark them for the excavation team.”

Linderman blew out his cheeks. He’d searched for bodies before, and knew how frustrating the process could be. This was a new wrinkle, and would be time-consuming.

Time was the one thing he didn’t have much of, and he asked Doc if there was any way they could speed up the process.

“Sure there is,” the handler said. “Make an educated guess as to where you think Crutch buried the bodies after he killed them. We’ll start there first.”

It sounded like a smart idea. Linderman walked around the house to the front lawn, and stood with his back to the house while gazing into the yard. It was still raining hard, the drops bouncing off the harder surfaces like tiny projectiles. His eyes fell on the pasture beside the barn. Surrounded by rotting three-board fencing, it looked to be about two acres in size. It felt right, and he pointed.

“Let’s start there,” he said.

“I’m game,” Doc said.

Tuffy and Bones didn’t waste any time. Within a few moments of hitting the pasture, they found a spot and began to paw violently at the ground.

“Flag it,” Doc said.

Linderman stuck a flag into the spot. The grass was knee-high and soaking wet. No sooner had he brushed off his hands when the dogs had found another spot a few feet away.

“Flag it,” Doc said.

Linderman did as told.

“Here’s another,” Doc said.

Within five minutes, he’d run out of flags, and the pasture resembled a mine field. He asked if there were any more inside the pickup truck.

“They’re behind the driver’s side,” Doc said. “This isn’t normal, you know.”

“Not even for a farm?” Linderman asked.

“I’ve searched for bodies on plenty of farms. I’ve never seen anything like this. You’ve thrown thirty flags, and we haven’t done half the damn pasture.”

“What do you think it is?”

“It’s a god damn cemetery, is what it is,” Doc said.

Linderman trudged out of the pasture toward the house. There was not enough time to dig up whatever was buried out there. He met Fitch halfway.

“The excavation team is on their way,” Fitch said.

“We’re going to need them,” Linderman said. “We’ve found over thirty graves and aren’t close to being done. I need you to do some digging, and see if there were a rash of unsolved crimes back when Crutch lived here.”

“You mean homicides?” Fitch asked.

Linderman shook his head. The graves in the pasture were not human — the police would have been all over those crimes by now — nor did he think they contained the remains of other humans whose graves might have been robbed, since that kind of crime was also vigorously pursued by the law. That left only one thing, and it played in perfectly with what he knew about Crutch’s twisted adolescence.

“Missing pets,” he said.

The six-member excavation team arrived around the time Linderman had run out of flags. Each member wore a black plastic Tyvek suit that tied around their necks, goggles, a surgical mask, and latex gloves. Their two vans were filled with equipment, including shovels, sifters, and a ground-penetrating radar machine, or GPR, that would let them see what was lying beneath the earth before having to dig it up.

Linderman stood by the rotting fence with Doc. He was soaked to the bone and his back was aching from bending over. Tuffy and Bones had rubbed their paws bloody and were lying at their feet.

“I wish they paid me by the flag,” Doc said.

The excavation team wheeled the GPR around the pasture. The machine was the size of a vacuum cleaner and about as nimble to move around. Linderman guessed the team would try to find the largest set of remains first, in the hopes it was a body. His hunch was proven right when they halted at one of the flags, and he heard a member call out, “We got a big one.” The area around the flag was sectioned off with string, and a plastic sheet was placed on the ground for the remains. Then the team started to dig.

The grave was shallow. Soon bones started to come out. Linderman walked over to see what they’d found. He’d pinned his badge to his jacket and did not bother to introduce himself. He was too damn tired to speak.

The captain of the team said hello. Tired and wet, and the job had only started. He pointed at the collection of bones lying on the sheet.

“Looks like a big dog. Fitch told me you were in a rush.”

Linderman grunted in the affirmative.

“I hate to tell you this, but we won’t stop once we have all the bones,” the captain said. “We’ll have to keep digging to make sure there isn’t a body buried down further. It’s a common trick — killers like to cover their victims with an animal corpse.”

“How far down?” Linderman asked.

“At least a few more feet.”

Linderman glanced at the army of flags sticking out of the ground. This could take forever, and even then, there was no guarantee that he’d find what he was looking for. His shoulders sagged as the last of his strength ebbed from his body.

“Are there any more excavation teams who could help us?” he asked.

“There’s one in the next county, but they’re on a job. I’m sorry.”

Linderman walked out of the pasture, knowing it was over. He couldn’t rush the process, nor did he have any more options at his disposal. He had tried and he had failed, no different that his efforts to find Danni.

He ducked into the barn. He wanted to get out of the rain, and be alone. He found a stool and sat down in the center aisle, staring into space.

Fitch appeared, soaked to the bone.

“I was looking for you,” Fitch said.

“You found me,” Linderman said.

“Is there anything else I can do? Anything at all?”

“I wish there was.”

Fitch pulled out a pack of cigarettes. They were all wet. He tried to light one up but could not get it going. In disgust he tossed it away.

“They don’t pay us to be heroes,” the officer said.

“Yes, they do,” Linderman said.

Chapter 48

Vick did not want to die.

That should have been obvious, only Vick knew that it wasn’t. Many women abducted by serial killers chose to die before their ordeals were over. They provoked their captors into killing them, not wanting to be raped, beaten up, or subjected to endless torture or humiliation.

Vick was not one of those women.

She wanted to live, even if damaged. There was too much left to see in the world, too many things left to do. She was too young, as corny as that sounded.

Living was winning.

She’d read that in the newspaper. She thought Elizabeth Smart had said it. Smart had endured being tethered to a tree in a Utah forest while a crazy man raped her multiple times a day while his equally crazy wife watched. Now, Smart was a free woman and attending college, while her captors were confined to mental institutions.

Living was winning.

Naked, Vick hung by her wrist’s from a hook in the ceiling inside a small bedroom. Incense was burning and a pulsating rap song was playing on a hidden stereo system that sounded like Kanye West. In the corner, Wayne lay passed out on a water bed. Mr. Clean sat next to Wayne, shaking the teenager’s shoulder.

“Wayne, wake up,” Mr. Clean said.

“Let me sleep,” Wayne mumbled.

“You can sleep later.”

“No, now.”

“Suit yourself, my friend.”

Mr. Clean stood up and flexed his muscles. His olive-colored skin was smooth and pretty to look at. He could have had all the woman he’d wanted, had he been a normal guy. But normal was not part of the program. The sound of his knife tearing her clothes had snapped Vick awake a few minutes before. As her clothes had fallen, Mr. Clean had kissed her nipples while staring into her eyes.

“Suck them harder,” Vick had told him.

Mr. Clean had liked that, and so he had.

Vick was a survivor. She would somehow live to tell about this, even if it meant doing things that had seemed out of the question only a few hours ago.

Living was winning.

“Are you ready to fuck me?” Mr. Clean now asked.

“Oh, yes,” Vick said.

Mr. Clean dropped his gym shorts. He had nothing on underneath. He stroked himself while staring at her. It didn’t take long before he was ready.

She forced herself to smile. She had to forge a bond with him, and get him to like her. It would numb his desire to kill her, and buy her precious time.

He untied her wrists while poking her with his erection. It was something that a kid having sex for the first time might do. Vick lowered her arms and rubbed her palms together to get the life back.

“Go lie down on the bed,” Mr. Clean said.

“What about the boy?” Vick asked.

“I’ll move him.”

Vick leaned into Mr. Clean and kissed him on the mouth. His eyelids fluttered almost imperceptibly. Suddenly, he pushed her away.

“On the bed — now,” he demanded.

Vick lay down on the bed and felt the water swish beneath her. Mr. Clean grabbed Wayne by the legs and gently pulled him off the bed until the teenager was lying on the floor, still passed out. Mr. Clean climbed onto the bed and straddled her.

“Are you ready for me?” he asked.

Vick nodded. Faking it had never been her strong suit, but she was going to try like hell to make him happy. It was the only thing she could think of. He caressed her face with the side of his hand. His fingers touched one of her ear rings.

“I want these,” he said.

Vick swallowed hard. The ear rings had been her mother’s. Rarely did she take them off, their presence a constant reminder of a woman she barely knew. She unscrewed the backs, and gave them to him.

Mr. Clean got off the bed, and removed a glass jar from the night table. The jar was filled with women’s jewelry. His trophy jar, she guessed. He dropped the ear rings into it.

“Hey — what’s going on?”

Wayne had pulled himself off the floor, and stood on wobbly legs. The drugs had done a number on him, and he looked messed up. His eyes danced as he looked down at Vick lying naked on the bed.

“You going to screw her?” the teenager asked.

Mr. Clean grabbed his erection and waved it in front of the boy’s eyes.

“Yes!” he said gleefully.

“I thought she was my girlfriend,” the teenager said.

Mr. Clean frowned, not sure what to make of this statement.

“She is,” Mr. Clean said. “But I get to do her first.”

“I don’t want sloppy seconds,” the teenager said.

“But…”

“You said she was mine. That means I get to do her. Doesn’t it?”

Mr. Clean visibly deflated. His erection went away, and his eyes fell to the floor. Vick wondered how many people had ever spoken to him like that. Probably not many. Yet Wayne had gotten away with it. He had control over his captor.

Wayne took off his clothes and climbed onto the bed. He was already aroused. He had a teenager’s body, with a flat stomach and small, hard biceps. A few strands of hair were growing on his chest, in their center, a small mole shaped like a heart. She did not believe in signs, yet for some reason, the mole gave her hope that she might get out of this alive. As he lowered himself on top of her, she let her lips brush gently against it.

“You going to fight me?” Wayne asked, his voice suddenly harsh.

Vick shook her head.

“I didn’t hear you,” the teenager said.

Vick tensed up. Wayne sounded as threatening as Mr. Clean. She stared into his eyes and saw a dark, simmering expression that had not been there before.

“No,” she whispered.

“Good. Now spread your legs.”

“Please be gentle.”

“Do it,” he said, raising his voice.

Anything was better than being raped by a serial killer, she thought.

She let Wayne enter her, then wrapped her arms around him. She quickly got into his rhythm, her hips moving in sync to his body’s thrusts. It was pleasurable, and she let her lips brush against his soft chin.

The bedroom door clicked shut. Vick lifted her head. Mr. Clean was gone. It was the opportunity she’d been praying for, and she grabbed Wayne’s head with both her hands, and pulled his head down close to hers.

“What are you doing?” the teenager said.

“I talked to Amber,” Vick whispered.

Anger flashed through his eyes. “Shut up!” he said.

“She told me everything.”

“I don’t want to hear it.”

“I know about Adam…”

“I said, shut up!”

“… and the bayonet.”

Wayne slapped her in the face, snapping her head to one side. Vick’s head fell back on the bed, and she tasted the warm blood in her mouth. She was too late. Mr. Clean had already changed him.

“Don’t open your mouth again,” Wayne said.

Shutting her eyes, Vick prayed that he would finish quickly.

Chapter 49

The lightning was the final straw.

It lit up the gray sky and shook the property with a crash of thunder. The excavation team scrambled to the safety of their vans, while Doc threw Tuffy and Bones into the pack of his pickup, the animals cowering in fear. The search was on hold until further notice.

Linderman stood inside the barn, cursing. He should have quit right then, and caught the next plane to South Florida. If nothing else, he could help the police hunt for Vick, and perhaps pick up a trail which they’d missed.

But something told him to stay here, and give this a final shot. The bodies of Crutch’s mother and three sisters were somewhere in that pasture.

He walked over to Doc’s pickup and tapped on the window with his wedding ring. The window came down, Doc sitting at the wheel with Tuffy in his lap.

“What would you do in my situation?” Linderman asked.

“If at first you don’t succeed, ask for help,” Doc replied.

“Any suggestions?”

Doc took his wallet off the seat, removed a worn business card.

“These guys are good,” Doc said.

The card was for NecroSearch, a non-profit organization out of Colorado that specialized in finding clandestine grave sites, its members a Who’s Who of criminologists and scientists. The company logo was a human skeleton inside a coffin-shaped box.

“I’ll give it a try,” Linderman said.

He called from the barn. The company founder, Dr. Max Hellinger, answered the phone. Pavarotti’s rendition of Nessun Dorma was playing in the background, the sad lyrics mixing perfectly with the downpour. Linderman identified himself, and told the good doctor the problem he was facing.

“Let me be sure I understand your situation,” Hellinger said. “You have a pasture filled with graves, and you need to quickly determine which graves contain those of a woman and her three daughters.”

“Correct,” Linderman said.

“An interesting dilemma. The first thing I would need would be a profile of the killer. What can you tell me about him?”

“Our killer was a teenage boy named Jason Crutchfield. He was seventeen at the time of the killings. Physically, he’s rather small, and slight of build. He bludgeoned his family to death in the dining room, and dragged their bodies outside to bury them.”

“This pasture with the graves — how far is it from the house?”

“Approximately two hundred yards.”

“Are you standing in it now?”

“No, I’m standing in a horse barn next to the pasture. It’s raining heavily.”

Hellinger paused to digest the information. “The act you just described would take a great deal of physical exertion. Your suspect had to drag four bodies a good distance, then bury them. He would have been high on adrenalin from the killings, but that would have worn off. You can rest assured that he ran out of strength at some point, and dug shallow graves.”

“You’re sure about this?”

“Absolutely. Digging a hole is hard work.”

“How shallow would the graves be?” Linderman asked.

“Depending upon the consistency of the earth, I’d say between eighteen inches and two feet down,” Hellinger said. “That’s usually the norm.”

Linderman found himself nodding. It was going to be easier than he’d thought. The shallow graves in the pasture would be human, the deeper graves of animals.

“Would you mind holding the line?” Linderman asked.

“Not at all.”

He hustled across the yard to the vans. A window lowered to reveal the team’s captain eating a thick ham and Swiss sandwich.

“What’s up?” the captain said.

“I’ve got a question,” Linderman said. “How many shallow graves did you find when you scanned the pasture with the GPR machine?”

“Define shallow,” the captain replied.

“A foot and a half to two feet deep.”

“None,” the captain said.

The answer stunned Linderman, and a sickening feeling came over him. Had they just spent the past few hours looking in the wrong place?

“Are you sure?”

“Positive,” the captain said. “Rule one of looking for a body — check the shallow graves first. Most killers don’t dig very deep. It’s too damn tiring.”

His words confirmed what Hellinger had just told him. Linderman slapped his palm on the hood of the van and hurried back to the barn. Standing beneath the eave, he removed his cell phone and said, “You still there doctor?”

“I’m here,” Hellinger replied cheerfully.

“We’ve been looking in the wrong place.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. Finding graves on farms or large tracts of land can be challenging.”

“What would you suggest doing?”

“I would try another approach. How long ago did these killings take place?”

“Twenty-five years ago.”

“That’s a long time. Animals often dig up graves, and relocate bones and articles of clothing to their nests. Birds are particularly fond of doing this. I would suggest you climb into the trees and check the birds nests. If you find a scrap of clothing or a bone, you’ll know that the grave isn’t far away.”

“You want me to check birds nests,” Linderman said.

“Yes — is that a problem?”

“We’re having a bad storm.”

“I’m sorry, but I don’t’ know what else to tell you.”

Climbing into trees during a thunder storm was a risky proposition, but Linderman didn’t see that he had any other choice. Either he found the bodies, or he went back home empty-handed. He thanked Hellinger for his help and ended the call.

A quick search of the barn turned up not one, but two ladders, both of which were stored above the feed room, just out of reach. He convinced Doc to pull his pickup into the barn, and was able to pull the ladders down by standing inside the bed.

“What are you planning to do with them?” Doc asked.

“I’m going to look for birds nests,” the FBI agent replied.

“Why?”

“Because they might contain clues.”

“During a lightning storm?”

“That’s right.”

“With those? You’re crazy, my friend.”

The ladders were not in the best of shape. The first was made of old wood and had several loose rungs; the second of creaky aluminum, a perfect lightening rod. Would he rather die from a fall, or from two hundred thousand volts passing through his body? Choosing the latter, he hoisted the aluminum ladder onto his shoulder.

“At least wait until the storm passes,” Doc suggested.

“There’s no time.”

Linderman started to walk out of the barn. A blinding white flash accompanied by an ear-splitting crash of lightning halted his progress, and he retreated inside.

“That was close,” Doc said.

“You’re not making this any easier,” Linderman said testily.

“Can I make another suggestion? Why don’t you take a look inside the barn first? There are plenty of birds living year-round in here.”

Doc pointed straight up. Linderman craned his neck. In the dusty rafters above their heads were three large bird nests. The nests were round and heart-shaped, so perfectly constructed that they looked like works of art.

“Give me a hand,” Linderman said.

Extending the ladder, Linderman positioned it against the rafter containing the largest nest. With Doc holding him steady, he climbed up.

He poked the nest with his finger. Empty. He took another step and peeked inside. The nest was made of twigs and colorful scraps of paper. Convinced he’d found something, he pulled the nest apart. But in the end, it was nothing but garbage pulled from the trash, and his spirits crashed.

“Heads up. We’ve got company,” Doc said.

A crow was flying around the bar with a wiggling worm in its mouth. Linderman followed its ascent with his eyes, and saw the crow land on a nearby rafter, and shake itself dry. Done, it jumped into a nest where it was greeted by its chattering offspring. The walls of the nest were multi-colored, filled with tiny pieces of cloth and fabric.

Linderman leaned in, staring.

“Be careful, you’re going to fall,” Doc called out.

Linderman couldn’t help himself, and reached out to touch the nest. The fabric was sparkling with color. The graves were nearby, and he took a moment to look around the barn from his new vantage point. It contained four stalls.

“Let your dogs out of the truck,” Linderman said.

“What about the storm?” Doc asked.

“They’re in here.”

Chapter 50

It was time to get Wayne high.

Renaldo drove the teenager to an abandoned strip center in Lauderdale Lakes a block off Oakland Park Boulevard. The center was a casualty of the economy, the boarded-up stores boarded graying with age, the parking lot a minefield of pot holes. Nature was taking it back, one small step at a time.

Renaldo parked behind the center in the building’s shade and pulled out a small pot pipe. It was already filled with dope. He handed it to Wayne along with a lighter. The teenager seemed to know what to do.

“This is kick-ass stuff,” Wayne said in a high-pitched voice, the dope trapped in his lungs. “You want some?”

Renaldo put the pipe to his lips and took a small hit. He rarely smoked pot or drank, and would not have engaged in this ritual with Wayne, only the Program had demanded that it be done. Each of the Program’s steps was clearly spelled out. Step #7 said that it was important to keep the subject high once he had sex with his victim. By keeping him high, he was less likely to regret what he’d done, or was about to do.

Renaldo handed the pipe back to Wayne.

“Have some more,” he said.

Wayne made the bowl turn bright orange as he took another hit. From the trunk came the sounds of Vick thrashing around. After a few moments the noise stopped.

“Can she breath back there?” Wayne asked.

“Oh, yes. I drilled in air holes. She’s getting plenty of air.”

“You’ve put women in your trunk before, haven’t you?”

Renaldo turned sideways in his seat. Wayne’s question was more inquisitive than an accusation. Like the teenager wanted to know more about the things that he did. It made Renaldo think that a lasting bond was starting to form between them.

“Many times,” Renaldo replied. “I pick up prostitutes off the street, take them to my house, and play with them for a few days. They are my toys.”

“What do you do then. Let them go?”

“Hardly.”

“You kill them?”

“Yes, I kill them. I will show you the films of them dying, if you like.”

“Isn’t that a little harsh?”

“What do you mean, harsh?”

“You know, cruel. Why not just let them go? They probably wouldn’t tell.”

“But if they did, I’d go back to jail.”

Wayne finished the bowl in silence. The car’s interior smelled like an opium den, and Renaldo lowered the windows and flipped on the AC to its highest setting to blow out of the smell.

“You’ve been to jail?” Wayne asked.

“A mental hospital for the criminally insane.”

“Did it suck?”

“They kept me in a straightjacket most of the time.”

“You mind if I roll the windows back up? It’s getting hot.”

Wayne was covered in perspiration, while Renaldo was only sweating a little. He wondered if the teenager was having an adverse reaction to the pot. He rolled the windows back up by pressing a button on his door. The car instantly cooled down.

“When I got arrested, the prosecutor wanted to try me as an adult,” Wayne said. “I could have gone to prison for twenty years. I thought about jail a lot.”

“Would you kill to stay out of jail?” Renaldo asked.

“Yeah, probably.”

Vick had started to thrash around again, causing the car to shake. The desperate sounds were accompanied by a muffled cry for help. Renaldo had put a cloth gag in her mouth instead of using the plastic gag ball, a decision he now regretted.

“You sure she’s okay?” Wayne asked.

Renaldo stared at the teenager for a sign. “She’s fine. Did you like fucking her?”

“She was okay.”

“I was listening through the door when you were fucking her. I heard her say something strange to you.”

“You mean about Adam and the bayonet,” the teenager said.

Renaldo nodded. He did not want to pull information out of Wayne. The teenager had to give the information up. If he didn’t, Renaldo had a problem.

“Adam’s my older brother,” the teenager explained. “He died in Iraq.”

“Why do you think the FBI agent brought him up?”

“She was — aw, shit.”

A yellow and black banana spider had invaded the car while the windows were open, and had attached itself to Wayne’s shirt sleeve. Wayne lowered his window to let the spider out, only Renaldo stopped him.

“Kill it,” Renaldo said.

“I didn’t want to stain the upholstery,” the teenager said.

“Kill it anyway.”

The spider was soon a memory, its remains squashed against the dashboard.

“Continue,” Renaldo said.

“She was trying to cut a deal with me,” Wayne explained. “I used my brother’s bayonet to stab my mother’s boyfriend. She wanted to implicate my brother in the murder so the court would treat me differently.”

“I didn’t hear her offer to cut you any deal,” Renaldo said suspiciously.

“She didn’t. I figured it out. My lawyer wanted to do the same thing. My lawyer knew that my brother had sent me letters from Iraq that talked about all the killing he’d done, and thought the letters had influenced me.”

“Did they?”

The teenager shrugged. “Maybe.”

“Why didn’t you take her deal?”

Wayne grew reflective. He was different than the first two teenagers Renaldo had abducted for the Program, who were impulsive and hot-headed. Wayne was intelligent, and chose his words carefully when asked a question. Renaldo felt like he was talking to an equal when they spoke.

“I didn’t want her controlling me,” Wayne finally said.

Renaldo felt himself relax. It was the perfect answer.

“Would you rather control her?” Renaldo asked.

“Isn’t that what we’re doing?”

“We don’t own her mind.”

Wayne had to think about that. With his finger he scraped the spider’s remains off the dash and dropped them into the ashtray.

“How do you control someone’s mind?” the teenager asked.

“You must make them accept that you are the master, and they are the slave,” Renaldo replied. “It’s not as hard as you think. I will teach you.”

“Sounds cool. The pot made gave me the munchies. Can we get something to eat?”

“What are you in the mood for?”

“A burger would be good. And some french fries.”

Renaldo knew of a fast-food restaurant a few blocks away. As he started to drive away, the noise from the trunk resumed. He couldn’t go through the drive-through with that noise, and killed the engine.

“The lesson starts now,” Renaldo said.

He drew the Taurus from beneath the seat. Got out of the car, and went around back with the keys in one hand, the Taurus in the other. Wayne got out as well.

“You going to shoot her?” the boy asked breathlessly.

Renaldo shook his head and tossed Wayne the keys.

“Open the trunk, then stand back,” Renaldo said.

Wayne held the keys with both hands. A little boy now, out of his comfort zone, scared. It was amazing how quickly teenagers could morph back into infants.

“Now,” Renaldo demanded. “Use the big key.”

Wayne scratched the paint around the lock trying to get the key jammed into the lock. His body shook like Jello, his eyelids twittering like a camera shutter.

Finally he got the key in.

The trunk flew open, Vick kicking it with her legs. Wayne took a hit in the chest, and let out a groan. Renaldo had wisely kept his distance, both hands on the gun.

Now he moved quickly, and leaned into the trunk. Vick had managed to bring her tied wrists around from her back to her front, and was using her teeth to gnaw at the knots. In her struggle, she had torn her blouse, and bloodied herself.

Renaldo aimed the Taurus in her face. Vick froze, her eyes brimming with hatred and fear. Wayne leaned in to watch.

“Hit her,” Renaldo said.

Wayne cocked his fist, hesitated.

“What’s wrong?” Renaldo asked.

“I just had sex with her,” the teenager said.

“So?”

“I don’t know. It just doesn’t seem right.”

“Do you think this dirty little bitch cares about you? She’s a cheap whore. That’s why she screwed you, and made you think she enjoyed it.”

Wayne had turned into a statue, his eyes unblinking, his body coiled like a spring. Renaldo watched him out of the corner of his eye. If Wayne didn’t silence the FBI agent, Renaldo would have no choice but to shoot him. He could not have a son who felt compassion for others.

“Do it,” Renaldo whispered.

The punch came out of nowhere, and snapped Vick’s head straight back. There was no mistaking its power, or intent. Vick’s eyes closed, and her body went limp.

Renaldo slipped the Taurus beneath his armpit. He hog-tied Vick’s arms and legs together, slamming the trunk when he was done. Putting his arm around Wayne’s shoulder, he walked the teenager to the passenger door.

“Still hungry?” Renaldo asked.

“Starving,” Wayne said.

Chapter 51

The Florida heat was a shock to Linderman’s nervous system. Sweat poured down his neck as he hurried across the yard with Jenkins.

“You’re going to show him cartoons?” the warden asked, puffing hard.

“That’s right.” Linderman clutched a stack of stiff white composition paper beneath his arm. “I drew them during the flight from Pittsburgh. It’s the best way for Crutch to understand the situation he’s in.”

“That sounds mighty unorthodox. I hope you know what you’re doing.”

“I do, warden. Trust me.”

While in college, Linderman had interned at his uncle’s advertising agency in New York. His uncle, an artist, would take ad copy written by the agency’s copywriters, and draw cartoons that would tell the story. These cartoons were called a story board, and often determined if an advertising campaign got off the ground.

Linderman had utilized story boards as an FBI profiler. When dealing with a difficult case, he would sketch cartoons depicting how a killer might have murdered and disposed of his victims. The technique had proven helpful in breaking several cases.

They came to a sun-bleached building with a guard posted at the entrance. Jenkins had already explained to Linderman how Crutch had bitten another inmate and killed him. In all his years, Jenkins had never seen anything like it, and hoped he never did again.

“Why did he become a vampire?” Jenkins asked.

Linderman knew a great deal about Crutch’s personal history, yet his penchant for drinking human blood remained a mystery.

“I have no idea,” the FBI agent said.

They went in. The interior was cooler than outside, but only by a few miserable degrees. Walking down a short corridor, they passed a line of cells that made up solitary. Each cell had steel door with a number painted on it. Through the doors they could hear inmates talking to themselves and crying.

At door #6 they stopped. The guard threw back a sliding panel on the door and peered inside. He shook his head sadly.

“I thought I knew this guy,” the guard said.

“Let me see,” Linderman said.

He switched places with the guard. Through the window he saw a windowless room with a naked light bulb dangling from the ceiling. A cot was attached to the wall, a thin mattress the room’s only comfort. A true hell hole.

The room had been transformed by a madman’s hand. Every square inch of wall space was covered in grotesque charcoal drawings of human depravity and suffering, the pictures traveling straight up to the ceiling. It was as if the artist had taken Dante’s Inferno and a Nazi concentration camp, and put them in a blender.

Crutch sat on a chair in the room’s center, naked save for a pair of red underwear.

Behind his chair was the largest drawing of all, a life-size rendering of Surtr holding a bloody sword over his head as he waged war on the world and killed all that stood in his way, the landscape around him littered with headless corpses and engulfed in flames.

“Who gave him the charcoal?” Linderman asked.

“We don’t know how he got it,” the guard replied.

“Please open the door.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I can’t let you talk to him by yourself this time,” Jenkins said. “He’s too dangerous.”

Linderman did not have a problem with that. He didn’t want to be alone with Crutch, and have a repeat of his earlier experience. With others present, Linderman knew he had a better chance of walking away from the encounter unscathed.

The guard unlocked the door and went in first.

“Put your muzzle on,” the guard said.

Crutch picked up the dog muzzle lying on the floor, and secured it around his face. Once finished, he dropped his hands into his lap.

“It’s on,” Crutch said.

The guard checked the muzzle, then made Crutch stand up to be searched.

“He’s clean,” the guard said.

“Make him sit on his cot,” Linderman said.

The guard led Crutch to his cot. Crutch sat down and began to twiddle his thumbs. Linderman and Jenkins entered, filling the small space.

“Woof, woof,” Crutch said.

Jenkins and the guard leaned against the wall. Linderman dragged the chair in front of the cot, and stuck his foot on it. He took the cartoons he’d drawn, and propped them up onto his leg. The first cartoon showed a crude rendering of a three-story Victorian house.

“Oh, boy, a dog and pony show,” Crutch said.

“Yes, and it’s just for you,” Linderman said.

“How wonderful.”

“This is your family home in Oakmont, Pennsylvania. I went and visited there. The house is exactly as you left it.”

Crutch squinted. His eyes, normally still, darted from side-to-side.

Linderman let the cardboard drop to the floor. Next up was a cartoon of the dining room table with Crutch’s mother at the head, his three sisters occupying the other chairs.

“This is the dining room with your mom and sisters having a meal,” Linderman said. “As you can see, there isn’t a place setting for you. Your mother made you eat your meals in the basement, where she’d banished you. You must have done something truly awful to have gotten her so angry with you. Was it to one of your sisters?”

Crutch cursed under his breath, his eyes fixated on the cartoon.

“You probably enjoyed living in the basement,” Linderman went on. “It was a perfect teenager hangout. But then, the exclusion started to bother you. You didn’t like how your mother and sisters seemed to enjoy your absence.”

Crutch lifted his eyes to look at Linderman. They were filled with pain.

Linderman dropped the cardboard to the floor.

“This next drawing shows you bludgeoning your mother and sisters to death with a baseball bat,” the FBI agent said. “The main course was done, and your family was about to eat dessert. You came up from the basement and heard them talking. Something inside of you snapped, and you decided to kill them.”

Crutch let out a pitiful noise, the last of his resolve slipping away. The drawing landed atop the others.

“This next picture is more a guess than an article of fact,” Linderman said. “It shows you and your mother on the front lawn, with you biting your mother on the neck. I’m guessing your mother ran from the house, and you chased her. You bit her on the neck so hard, your teeth went through the skin and broke her collarbone.”

“You must have found her body,” Crutch mumbled.

“Yes, I did. Was this the first time you ever drank human blood?”

Crutch stared long and hard at the picture of him biting his mother.

“Yes,” he whispered.

“What inspired you to do that?”

“I was angry with her,” he said.

“But what compelled you to bite her?”

“A voice in my head told me to.”

“Had you ever heard this voice before?”

“No, it was the first time.”

The cardboard hit the floor.

“This is a drawing of your mother and sisters bodies propped on the picnic table in the barn,” Linderman continued. “You put the bodies there in an attempt to reenact their last meal inside the house. Why did you do that, Crutch?”

Crutch stared thoughtfully at the drawing. “You didn’t miss a thing.”

“I try to be thorough. Why did you put them on the picnic table?”

“I wanted them to listen to me. They never listened to me.”

“Even when you were killing them?”

Crutch shook his head. The cardboard hit the floor.

“Here is my last drawing. It depicts you burying the bodies in the horse stalls inside the barn. The barn contained four stalls, which suited your needs perfectly. Each body went into a different stall. You wrapped your youngest sister in plastic, yet chose not to wrap your other sisters’ bodies, or your mother’s. Was there a reason for that?”

“I liked my youngest sister.”

“Her body was the least decomposed, and still had pieces of flesh under the fingernails from where she must have scratched you. The FBI is in the process of identifying the DNA, which no doubt will be matched to yours.”

Linderman let the final drawing float to the floor. He lowered his leg from the chair, and brushed off the dirt it had left. Sitting down, he stared intently at the little man who’d caused so much bloodshed and horror.

“I can prove that you murdered your family,” the FBI agent said. “I’ve already spoken to the Oakmont DA, and she wants you to stand trial for these crimes. She’ll seek the death penalty. Pennsylvania is one of thirteen states that still executes people.”

Crutch’s body trembled and his breathing grew shallow. He crossed his arms in front of his chest, and hugged himself. Like so many merchants of death, he was a coward, and afraid of dying himself.

“Are you offering me a deal?” Crutch asked.

“Yes. I need to find Mr. Clean right now.”

“What do I get in return?”

“I’ll tell the DA about the notebooks I found in your bedroom, and how they prove you were insane at the time of the killings.”

“Sparing me the death penalty.”

“That’s right.”

Crutch leaned forward. “What about our original deal? Don’t you want to know what happened to Danni? Or are you willing to sacrifice her to find Mr. Clean?”

Linderman leaned forward as well. So great was his urge to strangle the life out of Crutch that he kept his hands firmly on his knees. “You don’t know what happened to Danni, outside of what you already told me. I realized it earlier. You were lying.”

“No, I wasn’t!” Crutch thundered.

“Yes, you were. You claimed that Simon Skell told you the name of the rich foreigner he sold my daughter to. Skell never would have done that. Skell didn’t confide in anyone, not even the members of his gang. He was too cagey for that.”

“But he confided in me,” Crutch said.

“And risk having you squeal so you could win an early release from prison? I don’t think so. You don’t know the name of the man who has my daughter, and you never did.”

Crutch eyelids fluttered and he rocked back on his cot. He had run out of bullets.

“You are very intuitive,” he said.

“I want Mr. Clean,” Linderman said.

“Promise me I’ll be spared the death penalty. I trust you, you know.”

“I’ll do everything to insure you aren’t put to death,” Linderman replied.

“What about Leon, the inmate I killed. Will I be charged for his murder?”

Linderman glanced across the cell at Jenkins.

“No,” the warden said. “It was an act of self defense.”

Crutch nodded, satisfied. “Very well. Mr. Clean is a Cuban ambulance driver named Renaldo Devine. He derives pleasure from dumping his victims bodies in public places, then being available when the 911 call comes in. His name is on the log of every hospital where a victim was brought in.”

“Is that how you found him?” Linderman asked.

“No. The hospitals would not divulge the information. All I knew was that he was an ambulance driver. Broward County has six companies which do this kind of work. I found the names of the drivers on the company’s web sites, and left messages at work for them. I used the name of Mr. Clean’s latest victim, and asked the driver to call me back. I left about a hundred of these messages. Finally, Devine called me back.”

“Keep going.”

Crutch’s eyes narrowed through his muzzle. “Who said there was more?”

“I did.”

“But what if there isn’t?”

“The deal is off.”

“Fucking bastard!”

“Watch your mouth!” the guard warned.

“Very well. Mr. Clean lives by himself in a house on a dead end street in Cooper City. He keeps guns in every room of his house, and has taken many precautions to protect himself. Be careful, or he will surprise you. That’s all I can think of at the moment. Perhaps I can call you if I remember something else of value.”

“You aren’t going to be making any phone calls from this prison,” Jenkins declared.

Linderman rose from the chair. It had been a long, difficult journey, but he had finally learned the truth. He scooped up the story boards from the floor.

“I’d like to keep those, if I may,” Crutch said.

“What for?” Linderman asked.

“You know what they say. All we have are memories.”

Chapter 52

Vick woke up in the darkness, her mouth tasting of dried blood. She ran her tongue over her teeth, and found them all there. So much for small favors.

It wasn’t the first time a man had smacked her in the face. Her father had once knocked out one of her front teeth during a heated argument. He’d later apologized, and offered to buy her a car. But it was too late for apologies. The damage had been done, and she’d left home as soon as she’d been able to support herself.

Thinking about her father brought warm tears to her eyes. He’d been such a bastard that she’d promised herself to never shed another tear over him again. Yet here she was, letting the waterworks flow.

The tears kept coming. Was it really her father she was crying for? Or were the tears for Wayne Ladd? Not the Wayne Ladd who’d raped her and then delivered a right cross to her jaw. No, she was crying for the beautiful teenage boy whose photograph had conjured up heartthrob dreams and fantasies of highschool boyfriends she’d never had. That punch had shattered those dreams while extinguishing a flame deep inside of her.

She heard voices. Mr. Clean and Wayne were having a conversation. She shifted her body and put her ear against the wall of the trunk. She could hear them talking about food, and whether they wanted burgers or Chick Fil-A. How lovely.

They settled on burgers, and went to a drive-through. She listened to Mr. Clean order two double bacon cheeseburgers and two large orders of fries through the squawk box. The cashier repeated the order, his voice crackling with static.

Mr. Clean parked somewhere nearby, and he and Wayne ate lunch. They did not talk while they ate. It reminded Vick of meal time at her home growing up, her fathers and brothers wolfing down their food without making a sound.

She wondered why she was thinking these thoughts. She kept little contact with her family, nothing more than a phone call on holidays and birthdays. Her brothers had never stood up for her, and like her father, she had little use for them. So why were her thoughts fixated on them now? Was she afraid she was never going to see them again?

The sweet smell of marijuana drifted into the trunk. Mr. Clean and Wayne were getting high again. Their voices changed, growing louder and more relaxed. There was no mistaking that a bond had formed between them. Mr. Clean liked Wayne, and treated him like a son. Wayne, in turn, was respectful of his captor, and seemed willing to go along with whatever Mr. Clean suggested. They were a team.

Their talk shifted to how they were going to kill Vick, and dispose of her body. She should have been horrified, but surprisingly was not. She had studied enough serial killers to know how the game was played.

“I want you to kill her,” she heard Mr. Clean say.

“Me?” Wayne replied, coughing loudly.

“You fucked her, you get to kill her,” Mr. Clean said.

“Is that how it works?” Wayne asked, still coughing.

“Yes. That’s how it works.”

“Well, if you say so. When?”

“Once it grows dark.”

“Why wait?”

“Because you must always kill at night.”

“Nobody can see you, huh?”

“That’s right. The night is our greatest asset.”

“Whatever you say.” More loud coughing. “Can we get another burger? I’m still hungry.”

Mr. Clean started the engine. They continued to banter during the ride back to the drive-through, their voices not betraying a care or trouble in the world.

Vick shut her eyes, knowing she was doomed.

Chapter 53

Cooper City was a bedroom community in south Broward County, the pleasant, cookie-cutter developments packed together like cookies in a can. The houses were older and more modest here, and dated back to a simpler time.

Renaldo Devine’s ranch house had been built in the sixties, which qualified it for historical preservation by Florida standards. On a dead end street, it had surveillance cameras posted on the four corners of the house. The padlocked gate boasted a multi-lingual No Trespassing sign.

Linderman sat in a police surveillance van across the street, staring at a live feed of the house on a monitor. He had arrived a short while ago, having been whisked from the airport in an unmarked car. Moody sat next to him, wearing a bulletproof vest.

“You look beat,” Moody said. “Sure you’re up for this?”

“I’ll manage,” Linderman said.

“Here. Put these on.”

Moody handed him a pair of headphones. The police had aimed an electronic eavesdropping cone at the house, and Linderman strained to hear any sounds of life coming from inside. A radio was playing a Spanish station, and the television was on.

He pulled off the earphones. “There’s definitely signs of life.”

“That’s what I thought. I think we better move,” Moody said. “You in agreement?”

Linderman nodded. He appreciated the gesture. Moody was in charge, not him, and the sheriff was only asking because he knew that Rachel might be inside.

Moody called the power company on his cell phone.

“Kill the power,” Moody said.

Outside the van, a transformer sitting atop a light pole made a loud popping sound. The power on the street was now down. Moody had effectively knocked out the surveillance cameras around Devine’s house.

“Time’s a wasting,” Moody said.

They got out of the van. It had grown dark, the blackness made more complete by the lack of streetlights. Parked behind them was a mini-bus with darkened windows. Moody banged on the door with his fist. A ten-person SWAT team piled out. Dressed in bulky Kevlar and clutching automatic weapons, they’d painted their faces black, and looked ready for battle.

“Listen up,” Moody said. “Our suspect is holding two people captive inside the house. Saving their lives is our foremost priority. Any questions?”

There were none.

“Let’s go,” Moody said.

The SWAT team jogged across the street with Linderman and Moody behind them. Linderman had worked with SWAT teams before, and had learned that the best tactic was to stay out of their way, and let them do their job.

Upon reaching Devine’s property, the SWAT team spread out on the sidewalk, and aimed their guns through the chainlink fence at the house. One member of the team was holding a pair of bolt cutters. He approached the gate, then suddenly stopped.

“Something wrong?” Moody whispered.

“The gate’s wired,” the man whispered back.

“Don’t worry. There’s no power,” Moody told him.

“I sure hope not,” the man said.

The man cut the padlock, and let it clatter noisily to the ground. The gate swung open on its own accord. The SWAT team swarmed onto the property without making a sound. Half the members circled behind the house, while the rest went up the path.

Devine’s house had a sagging front porch. As the team stepped onto the porch, hidden spotlights on the house came on, their brilliant white light flooding the yard.

“Take those lights out!” Moody yelled.

Linderman stood on the lawn. One of the spotlights had temporarily blinded him. He went into a crouch, and rubbed frantically at his eyes.

One by one, the spotlights were taken out of commission by the SWAT team, the sound of automatic gunfire echoing across the otherwise peaceful neighborhood. It was dark again, only their element of surprise was gone.

“That’s enough,” Moody shouted.

The shooting stopped. Linderman stood up, his vision slowly returning. From the garage came a loud, engine-like noise.

“What’s that noise?” Moody asked.

“A generator,” Linderman said.

The garage door was locked. Linderman knocked out the glass with his Glock and let himself in. He flipped the switch beside the door, and the interior lit up. A battery operated generator sat in the room’s center, rumbling loudly. A thick black cable was attached to the generator, which ran across the floor to the wall and into the house.

Moody was right behind him, followed by half the SWAT team.

“What’s this?” the sheriff asked.

“Devine rigged the generator to the security cameras, which must be battery operated,” Linderman explained. “When the SWAT team stepped on the porch, the security cameras came on, which in turn flipped the generator on.”

“Why?”

“He’s using the power to do something inside the house.”

“Let’s find out what.”

The SWAT team entered the house through the garage. They moved cautiously, fearing the interior might be booby-trapped, and pointed their guns at every shadow.

Linderman brushed past them. There was no vehicle in the garage. Mr. Clean was not here. That was either in their favor, or it wasn’t.

Linderman canvassed the empty rooms until he came to a study. The room was dark, except for the computer. An older model from Gateway, it sat on the desk, it’s screen brightly lit up. The hard drive whirred noisily.

He sat down in front of the computer, and tried to shut it off. When the computer did not respond to his typed commands, he pulled it away from the wall, and attempted to disconnect it from its power source.

“What are you doing?” Moody asked.

“Mr. Clean is erasing his hard drive. That’s what the generator is for. He must have a lot of stuff stored in the memory he doesn’t want us to see.”

“Can you stop it?”

Linderman found the power cord and wrapped his hand around it. The hard drive had stopped whirring, and he knew it was too late. He ripped it out of the wall anyway.

“What do you think was on it?” Moody asked.

“Devine is ego-driven. He probably stores videos of his crimes on his computer, and watched them to get his kicks.”

“Do you think we can retrieve it?”

Crutch had said Mr. Clean was clever. Linderman hadn’t expected this.

“I doubt it,” Linderman said.

One of the SWAT team members appeared at the doorway. “We found a head in the garbage,” he said soberly.

They followed him into the kitchen. The head of an older black man wrapped in plastic bag sat on the counter on a platter. Two other members of the SWAT team stood around the table, staring in morbid fascination. Linderman wanted to warn them of the nightmares they were sure to have, but didn’t think it would do any good.

“Did you find anything else?” Linderman asked.

“This,” another member said, holding up a manila folder. “It was sitting on the microwave.”

Linderman went into the dining area to get away from the head, and spread the folder’s contents onto the table. The words The Program jumped up at him. He had found the instructions on how to make a killing machine.

He poured through the pages, hoping it might reveal what Mr. Clean had done with Rachel and Wayne. It read like an instruction manual to a washing machine, the words dry and to the point. The last page gave him pause.

Step #7: The Killing of the Victim.

The killing of the victim is the culmination of the Program. Certain details must be adhered to in order to avoid failure and disappointment.

Never forget that this is a new experience for the boy. Before this, his killing has been impulsive, and fueled by an uncontrollable rage burning inside of him. This killing will be different, and will be controlled. It must be well-planned, and methodical in its execution. Like a symphony.

The victim you choose is one of personal taste and convenience. Try to pick someone small, who will not give you a hard time. It is important that the boy enjoy himself. A fighting female will not do.

At first, the boy may react negatively to the idea of killing an innocent female. Do not be surprised if this happens, for it is a natural reaction. To prepare him, place him under the influence of alcohol or drugs, so his defenses are down.

The most important aspect of this step is the physical act itself. Study these points, and if possible, memorize them.

* The killing must be violent in nature.

* A knife or bat or even the hands can be used.

* No guns!

* There must be direct physical contact between the boy and victim.

* The boy must help in disposing of the body.

Good luck!

He flipped the last page over. There was writing on the back. A hand drawn calendar, with notations for Step 1 through Step 7 penciled in for different days.

He stared at the date for Step 7.

It was today.

Linderman closed the folder. He told himself to start looking around the house for clues. There had to be a thread here that would tell him where Mr. Clean had gone. A slip of paper in a trash can, or a saved message on the answering machine.

He shook his head. Deep down, he knew it was too late. Mr. Clean was two steps ahead of them. The generator in the garage had shown him that. Vick was a goner.

Linderman felt his shoulders sag as the blackness settled in, its vastness ready to swallow him whole. The day he’d lost Danni had felt like this; the heart-wrenching ache of knowing that no matter what he did, it was probably not going to be enough.

“Linderman.”

Moody entered the dining area, cell phone in hand.

“What’s up?” the FBI agent asked.

“We just got a 911 call from the manager of a McDonald’s in Lauderdale Lakes,” the sheriff replied. “A car came through the drive-through and a teenager threw a bag of garbage out his window. One of the employees picked it up, and found a note. It was written by Wayne Ladd.”

“What?” Linderman said.

“He gave us an address, and asked us to hurry.”

Chapter 54

“Why do you want to dump the body there?” Renaldo asked.

“It’s near my highschool,” Wayne replied.

They sat behind the abandoned shopping center. Dusk had turned to darkness, the hot night air murderously still. Renaldo had lit up another bowl of dope. He took the last hit and banged the pipe out in the ashtray.

“Would you like your friends to see the body?” Renaldo asked.

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

“It would fuck with their heads, you know? Do you see the movie River’s Edge, where a highschool kid offs his girlfriend and shows off her body to his friends for a few days? That actually happened someplace in New York.”

“Would you like to fuck with your friends’ heads?”

Wayne smiled loosely, his eyelids heavy. He looked ready to fall asleep. “You bet. They’re all assholes. They have cars and nice clothes and are always complaining. It would break them out of their comfort zones, you know?”

Renaldo laughed silently. Wayne wasn’t content to just kill the girl in the trunk; he also wanted to hurt his friends. These were all good signs.

“Where is your highschool?” Renaldo asked.

“In Lauderhill Lakes. Get on 41 and head north.”

Soon they were on the road. Vick had regained consciousness and banged around the trunk. As he drove, Renaldo watched Wayne out of the corner of his eye. The boy was cool with it.

“Tell me more about this movie,” Renaldo said.

“What do you want to know?”

“Did the boy who killed his girlfriend keep her in his bedroom?”

“No. He dumped her body down by the river. That’s why it’s called River’s Edge. His friends took field trips to see her. They acted like they were visiting a haunted house.”

“Like it was a game.”

“Yeah. After I saw the movie, I found a story on the Internet about what really happened. It said half the kids in the highschool knew about the girl’s body, but didn’t tell anybody. The principal who ran the highschool freaked out. He brought in a team of psychiatrists to figure out why nobody reported it.”

“Do you think your friends will report the body when they find it?”

“I think they’ll shit in their pants.” Wayne laughed.

Renaldo laughed as well. He could not remember how long it had been since he’d done that.

They came to Wayne’s highschool, which was named after a dead president. It was surrounded by a fence and flooded with low-wattage halogen lights. Wayne pointed at a grassy field next to the property which abutted the football stadium.

“That’s the spot,” Wayne said. “No one hangs around there at night.”

Renaldo spun the wheel and drove down the two-lane road next to the school. He came to the field and pulled his car up into the grass. A chorus of crickets competed with the hiss of traffic from the nearby highway. A good spot, Renaldo thought. He removed the Taurus from under the seat and got out. Slipping the gun behind his belt, he walked around to the back of the vehicle and found Wayne waiting for him.

“Ready?” Renaldo asked.

“No time like the present,” Wayne said.

Renaldo threw him the keys. “Unlock the trunk.”

Renaldo stepped back and drew his gun. He aimed at the trunk using both hands. Wayne unlocked the trunk and opened it. Vick had rolled onto her side, and was writhing frantically from side to side. Her body grew still, and she shut her eyes.

“Take her out,” Renaldo said.

“You’re not going to help?”

“Do as I tell you.”

Wayne dragged Vick out of the trunk, and made her stand against the car. Renaldo sensed an electricity between them as Wayne touched her.

“Do you want to fuck her again? You can if you want.”

“Not here,” Wayne said.

Renaldo pulled away the carpet covering the spare tire cavity. Lying inside the cavity was a knife, a long piece of chain, and a tire iron.

“Pick your weapon,” Renaldo said.

Wayne stared into the trunk. “You’re not going to let me shoot her?”

“No.”

“In the movie he shot her.”

“This is not a movie. Pick one.”

“Okay. I’ll use the tire iron.”

Renaldo removed the tire iron and slammed the trunk. Wayne pushed Vick ahead of him without having to be told. Renaldo liked his enthusiasm. The teenager stopped at a spot near the fence which had a large slit.

“One of my friends cut through the fence so we can slip through during the day,” he explained. He pushed Vick to the ground and held out his hand.

“Give it to me,” the teenager said.

Renaldo slapped the tire iron onto Wayne’s palm. He realized that he was trembling in anticipation. He hadn’t been this nervous since he’d killed his own sister.

Wayne tossed the tire iron from hand to hand. The teen said something under his breath that sounded like a prayer. God doesn’t listen to our prayers, Renaldo nearly told him. We are his bastard children.

“Why can’t I use a gun?” Wayne asked.

“No gun. Hit her in the head. Do it now.”

“Whatever you say.”

Wayne raised the tire iron over his head. He started to bring it down, then froze, his eyes darting through the fence at the adjacent football field.

Renaldo followed his gaze. A group of heavily armed men were on the fifty yard line, sprinting toward them. Above them hovered a helicopter, its bright spotlight sweeping the ground. Police. Renaldo instinctively aimed the Taurus at them.

Something hard hit his hands, breaking several of his fingers. He dropped his gun to the ground and cupped his hands together, the pain shooting up his arms. Wayne stood in front of him, wielding the tire iron for another strike.

“Why did you do that?” Renaldo said.

“I’m not who you think I am.” Wayne raised his voice. “Over here!”

“You little bastard. I will kill you.”

Renaldo rushed Wayne, and sent him tumbling to the ground. Retreating to his car, he managed to open the driver’s door with his broken fingers, and start the engine. His headlights automatically came on. Policemen poured through the fence, their weapons aimed at him. He saw Wayne lying on top of Vick, hugging her.

Bullets hit his windshield, the glass imploding around him. His back tires found the two-lane road. Driving in reverse, he rammed a police cruiser trying to stop him.

He got on the street in front of the highschool. Police cruisers were parked in the road in a giant V, preventing his escape. Uniformed cops huddled behind the cruisers, pointing guns at him. He drove onto the sidewalk, staying low to avoid their bullets. He heard the satisfying thud of a body going under his car.

He headed toward I-595. In his mirror, the cruisers gave chase. He couldn’t outrun the police, but he could lose them.

He could not stop thinking about Wayne, and how he’d misjudged him. Everything the teenager had said to him was a lie. Not his son, but a stranger.

For the first time since childhood, Renaldo cried.

Chapter 55

“He’s gone. You’re safe,” Wayne said.

The teenager untied the ropes holding Vick hostage. She got to her feet, not entirely sure what had just happened, or how the police had materialized out of thin air.

“I’m sorry I hit you,” the teenager said.

“You hurt me,” Vick said.

“I didn’t know what else to do. He was going to kill us.”

Vick looked into Wayne’s face and sensed he was telling the truth.

“How did the police find us?” she asked.

“I tipped them off. I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

Only inside, Vick nearly said.

Linderman stood on the other side of the fence, waving to her. The police chopper had landed in the end zone of the football field. She followed her boss into the chopper, and buckled herself into the seat next to the pilot, while Linderman sat in back.

“You okay?” Linderman shouted over the whirring blades.

“I’ll live,” Vick shouted back.

“The kid saved your life.”

“I know.”

The chopper floated into the air. Vick put on a pair of headphones which would allow her to speak to both the pilot and Linderman. Down below, Wayne stood with a group of police officers. He gave a little wave.

“Mr. Clean’s car has been spotted on 595, heading east,” Linderman said through the headphones. “The police are setting up roadblocks and blocking off the entrance and exit ramps. You ready to take him down?”

Vick hesitated. Then it hit her. This was still her case.

“Yes, sir,” Vick said.

Linderman reached through the seats and patted her shoulder. It was as much affection as she’d ever seen out of him, and she found the strength to smile.

“Thanks for the save,” she said.

“I don’t want to lose you Vick. You’re too good an agent.”

Spoken like a true boss, she thought.

The chopper hurtled across the night sky. 595 was directly ahead, its eight lanes of traffic lighting up the sky. The eastbound cars had already stopped moving.

Something was wrong. Vick saw smoke coming out of a parked vehicle. It was where 595 met Interstate 95, the winding overpass several hundred yards long. She made the pilot hover over the spot. A car in one of the middle lanes was on fire.

“That’s Mr. Clean’s car,” Vick said. “Can you drop us down?”

“Let me check,” the pilot said.

The pilot turned on his spotlight and used it to scour the ground. He found an empty field on the same side of 595 as the burning vehicle.

“That looks pretty flat,” the pilot said. “Hold on.”

Vick shut her eyes and grabbed the handle in the door. Looking down while riding in a chopper was a mistake, and caused instant nausea. She felt the craft bump down, and unfastened her seatbelt.

“I need a gun,” she said.

The pilot opened a compartment between the seats, and handed her a standard .45.

“It’s got a hair trigger,” the pilot said.

“Good to know,” Vick replied.

They climbed out of the chopper and ran across the field to the edge of 595. Four lanes of cars headed east on the interstate, all of them stopped. Traffic jams were the norm in South Florida, and dozens of curious motorists had gotten out of their vehicles to check out the burning car.

“Stay in your cars,” Vick shouted to them.

Vick pushed her way through the mob. She entered the two left lanes, and began to hunt for Mr. Clean. Linderman took the two right lanes, and did the same.

They checked out every car, their weapons held in front of them. It was scaring the hell out of people, but there was nothing they could do.

Vick reached the burning car first. The gas tank was open, and had a flaming rag hanging from it. Mr. Clean had turned his car into a giant Molotov cocktail.

It was like a bomb. If the gas tank exploded, other cars would surely follow. Vick had visions of every car in line catching fire, and the interstate being transformed into a giant inferno.

A motorist with a fire extinguisher appeared. Linderman grabbed the fire extinguisher out of his hands, and began to douse the flames.

“Find him, Rachel,” her boss said.

Vick ran around the vehicle, the flames tickling her skin. There were times when she cursed her height. She jumped onto the bumper of a car and looked in every direction. Five cars ahead, Mr. Clean had dragged a female driver from a mini-van, and put the poor woman in a choke hold. He was squeezing her to death, her feet dangling off the ground.

Vick jumped down and sprinted toward him. It was a scenario she’d trained for many times at the FBI academy. Just her and a madman.

Mr. Clean saw her coming. He didn’t look so frightening out in the open. In fact, he looked downright scared.

“Stop!” Mr. Clean shouted.

Vick halted when she was ten feet away. She aimed her weapon at him.

“Let her go,” Vick said.

“I’ll break mommy’s neck,” Mr. Clean said.

Vick glanced at the woman’s mini-van. It was filled with tykes in brightly-colored uniforms. The woman was a soccer mom, and this was her brood. Soccer moms were supposed to be tough, and Vick decided to give it a shot.

“Twist his fingers,” Vick told the woman.

The soccer mom looked at Vick in confusion.

“His fingers are broken. Grab his hand, and twist them!”

“Right,” the soccer mom gasped.

She grabbed Mr. Clean’s forefinger and pulled it straight back. Mr. Clean screamed in pain, and released her. The soccer mom started to beat and kick him. Her kids yelled their approval.

“Get in your vehicle, and lock your door,” Vick said.

The soccer mom backed off. Mr. Clean staggered to the guard rail, clutching his hand. Down below, southbound traffic on Interstate 95 was backed up, the vehicles’ noxious fumes polluting the air.

“Don’t you dare move,” Vick shouted.

Mr. Clean glanced at her. In his face she saw a decision being made. He flipped over the railing and disappeared.

“God damn it,” Vick swore.

She ran to the guard rail and looked straight down. Mr. Clean had landed atop a flat-roofed, eighteen-wheel truck. His legs were moving and his eyes looked clear. The chopper appeared overhead and bathed him in harsh yellow light.

“Stand up and put your arms in the air,” Vick shouted.

Mr. Clean rose uncertainly to his feet. His clothes were torn and the side of his head was bleeding. He’d twisted his ankle, forcing him to hop on one foot. He placed his hands behind his head and squinted at her.

“I surrender,” Mr. Clean called back.

“Don’t move,” Vick shouted back.

“I will not move. You have my word.”

The ground beneath Vic.’s feet rumbled gently. Down below on Interstate 95, the vehicles inched forward in unison. Traffic was starting to move. A slight smile spread across Mr. Clean’s lips. The breath caught in Vick’s throat.

“Jump down from there!” Vick shouted .

“But I will be run over,” Mr. Clean shouted back.

“Do it!” Vick said.

“No!”

“I’m ordering you.”

“I am hurt. I can’t jump,” he shouted back.

The eighteen-wheeler had shifted into drive, and was moving forward with the flow of traffic. Mr. Clean was getting a free ride to Miami, where he’d slip into the vast Cuban community, and resume his killing ways.

“I’m ordering you to jump down!” Vick repeated.

Mr. Clean mocked her with his eyes.

“I won’t tell you again,” she said.

“Goodbye, little girl,” he called back.

She emptied the .45 into her suspect. Mr. Clean dropped to his knees, then fell onto his back, his hands clutching at the bullet holes in his chest. He seemed surprised but not shocked, as if he’d known this was his fate. He died staring at the sky.

She watched the eighteen-wheeler rumble away. The driver was going to be in for a real surprise when he reached his destination.

Linderman appeared, covered in black soot. Her boss looked like he’d been to hell and back.

“Nice shooting,” he said.

Chapter 56

Wayne saw the Audi pull into the parking area in a cloud of dust, and park beside a pick-up truck loaded with hay. Behind the wheel sat Rachel Vick. Vick appraised herself in the mirror before getting out.

Wayne brushed the mare tied in the cross-ties. The stable had eight horses, and this mare was his favorite. She was a quarter horse, which was the fastest horse in the world over a short distance. He’d gotten on her several times and gone galloping across the pasture. It had been like riding a rocket.

Vick came up the path. She still hadn’t spotted him. Or maybe she had, and assumed he was a hired hand. Wayne wore blue jeans and a stiff denim shirt, and could have easily been an employee.

Vick had been on his mind a lot. They’re never really had a chance to talk. He’d considered calling the FBI’s office in North Miami and asking for her, just to see how she was doing. Seeing her now constricted his heart with a strange, purposeless urgency he didn’t quite understand.

“Hey,” he called out.

Vick stopped with a start, and brought her hand up to her heart.

“I didn’t recognize you,” she said.

He started to brush the horse’s tail. “I’ve got a new career.”

“She’s a beauty.”

“You like horses?”

Wayne already knew the answer to his own question. All women liked horses.

“I’ve only ridden once,” she admitted.

“Bet you got thrown.”

“How’d you know that?”

“Most people who’ve only ridden once get thrown and never get back on. I learned that from my riding instructor.”

“You’re taking lessons. That’s great.”

“It’s part of the deal. I work with the horses and also get to ride them. It’s called equine therapy. My doctor says that if I can relate to horses, I won’t go shoot up my highschool after they let me out.”

“Your doctor didn’t say that,” Vick said, growing serious.

“No, but that’s what he’s thinking.”

“That’s not funny, Wayne.”

“Crap. I pulled out a hair.” He pulled a long hair from his brush, and displayed it to Vick. “I’m not supposed to pull out any hairs when I brush their tails. It takes a horse several years to grow their tails. About an inch a month.”

“The same as a human,” Vick said. “Is there someplace we can speak in private?”

“We can use the office. It’s air-conditioned.”

Wayne led the mare into its stall where a flake of hay was waiting in the corner, then closed the sliding door and latched it. “She’s a smart one,” he said. “If I don’t latch the door, she’ll let herself out.”

“Do you like the horses?” Vick asked.

“Yeah. They’re cool.”

The office was a small room across with framed photos of horses and ribbons from shows adorning the walls, the cold air a welcome relief. Wayne sat in a chair while Vick leaned against the desk. From her purse, she removed a handful of papers.

“Do you know what these are?” she asked.

Wayne flipped through the papers. It was a copy of the statement that he’d given to the detective who’d interviewed him.

“Uh-huh,” he said.

“Why did you lie?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You left out the fact that you and I had sex. Why did you do that?”

“Why should I tell the police about that?”

“It’s the truth Wayne, it’s part of what happened. By leaving it out, you’re contradicting what I told them.”

“You told them we had sex?”

“Yes.”

“You should have lied. It’s nobody’s business but ours.”

“Are you trying to protect me?”

“Yes. Didn’t that guy hurt you enough?”

Vick took the confession back and tossed it on the desk. She looked disgusted with him. Like she’d expected more out of Wayne, and he’d come up short.

“There’s something else that I told them,” Vick said.

“What’s that?”

“That I’m ninety-nine percent certain that your brother Adam stabbed your mother’s boyfriend to death.”

The teenager abruptly stood up, the chair making a harsh scraping sound. Vick stiffened and pointed at his chair.

“Sit down, Wayne. Right now.”

He came forward instead. His hands shot out, and grabbed her arms.

“Why did you tell the police that?” he asked angrily.

“Sit down, Wayne.”

“You had no right doing that.”

“Sit…”

“It will kill her if that comes out.”

“What are you talking about. Kill who?”

“My mother. Adam was her favorite. Did you see how she drinks? She started doing that after my father died. What do you think will happen if the police tell her that Adam was a murderer? It will throw her over the edge. You had no right to do that.”

“Oh, God, I’m sorry.”

Wayne lowered his arms. He returned to the chair and dropped his head, his eyes glued to the floor. “How did you find out?” he asked.

“I never believed you were a killer,” she said. “I don’t think you have a mean bone in your body. That meant someone else killed your mother’s boyfriend. Since it was Adam’s bayonet, I started with him. I contacted the national Armed Services web site, and requested Adam’s army record. Sure enough, your older brother got a ten-day leave the Christmas your mother’s boyfriend was murdered.”

Neither of them spoke, the window unit humming noisily.

“It was supposed to be a surprise,” Wayne finally said, his voice barely a whisper. “I picked Adam up at the airport. He’d been drinking on the plane, and was messed up. We came home and mom was passed out on the couch with a black eye. Adam got his bayonet and made me tell him where the boyfriend lived. It was only a few blocks away, so he ran over and killed him. I tried to stop him.”

“So your mother never knew.”

“Shit, no. No one knew Adam was home, so we kept it that way.”

“Taking the blame ruined your life.”

“I didn’t want Adam to go to prison.”

Another silence. Vick picked up the confession from the desk. “You’re going to have to tell the police we had sex, and you’re going to have to tell them about Adam,” she said. “We can figure out a way to break the news to your mother so it won’t destroy her.”

“What do you mean, we?”

“The police and the FBI. They have psychologists who know how to handle situations like this.”

“What good will any of that do?”

Vick crossed the office and put her hand on his shoulder. “It will do two things. It will set the record straight, and it will clear your name. In the end, it will be the best thing for everyone involved. You have to trust me on this.”

“You’re sure this is right?”

“Yes, Wayne. I’m sure.”

He looked up at Vick. Her hand still rested on his shoulder. He took that as a sign that she cared about him as deeply as he cared about her.

“I want something in return,” he said.

“What’s that?”

“I want to see you again.”

Vick lowered her hand. He thought she might storm out, and that he’d never see her again. He didn’t think he could deal with that.

“Just to talk,” he said. “You know, over a soda or something.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea, Wayne.”

“Why not?”

“It just isn’t.”

“But I care about you.”

“I know you do. You saved my life. I’m never going to forget that.”

“Then why can’t we see each other?”

Vick started to reply, then thought better of it, and walked out of the office. Wayne followed her out of the barn and into the parking lot.

“You leaving?” he asked.

Still nothing. He opened the driver’s door of the Audi for her. Climbing in, she stuck the key in the ignition, the engine hardly making a sound when it came on.

He knelt down next to her window and stared through the tinted glass. Please don’t leave without saying goodbye, he thought.

The window lowered, their faces a few feet apart.

“I’ll do what you asked,” he said.

“Thank you,” Vick said.

“Why won’t you see me again?”

She smiled and shook her head.

“Come on, say something,” he said.

“You’re ten years too late,” she said.

Wayne wasn’t sure he understood what Vick meant. He watched her car until it disappeared, then went back to grooming the horses.

Chapter 57

Vick drove to the FBI’s office in North Miami, and spent the rest of the morning at her computer responding to several hundred emails.

She hoped she hadn’t hurt Wayne, or broken his heart. Despite what had happened to him, he was still a boy, and still innocent to much of the world. She hoped he stayed that way for a long time, and that these dark days were behind him.

At noon, she got an email from Linderman, inviting her to lunch. She knew what that meant — sandwiches at his desk, pouring over a case. They had not had a meaningful conversation since she’d taken down Mr. Clean, and she accepted his offer.

A half-hour later she was in her boss’s office, eating an inch- thick corned beef sandwich from the Jewish deli that delivered to the building. Linderman ate a Reuben dripping with thousand island dressing with his necktie flipped over his shoulder.

“There’s a memorial service for Roger DuCharme tomorrow,” Vick said. “I was planning to go. Care to join me?”

“I’m leaving town,” he said. “I’m taking a couple of weeks off to look for Danni.”

Vick put down her sandwich. The look on her boss’s face was troubled, his eyes without their usual hard focus. Like he’d gotten the wind knocked out of his sails, and it hadn’t come back. The invitation took on a different meaning. He needed to talk. She waited until they were both finished eating before speaking.

“Do you have a new lead?” Vick asked.

“Yes. It came from Crutch. I don’t know if it will amount to anything, but I have to run it down.”

“What did he tell you?”

“Crutch said that Simon Skell had abducted Danni at the University of Miami six years ago. Skell was going to kill Danni, only my daughter established a bond by baking cakes and cookies for Skell. It was something that I could see Danni doing.

“Crutch said that Skell sold my daughter to a man in Florida soon after this. The man purchased Danni to cook for him, and to be a sex slave. Crutch said that Danni understood the arrangement, and had agreed to it. It was the kind of detail that made me think Crutch was telling the truth.”

He spoke with the same flat tone that he used when working on a case, only the pain in his face spoke otherwise. He was hurting deeply inside.

“Have you run a profile through NCIC?” Vick asked.

“Yes. Unfortunately, nothing popped up. But that doesn’t mean this person hasn’t committed a crime in Florida. Many police departments in the state don’t have funding to send their records to NCIC. I’m going to do a road trip and visit police departments around the state, and manually search their data bases.”

“That could take forever.”

Linderman did not reply. He had traipsed through abandoned fields, dug through landfills, and navigated alligator-infested swamps in the hopes of finding some trace of Danni. This was one more journey on that road.

“May I make a suggestion?” Vick said.

“Of course.”

“I think you should take another tact, and scrap this idea for now.”

Linderman clenched his jaw, his fingers drumming the desk.

“What are you suggesting?” he asked.

“Put yourself in Danni’s shoes,” Vick said. “Only one thing is going through her mind during this ordeal. How am I going to escape? That’s all she’s thinking about. It’s what gives her hope, and keeps her going.”

“Is that what you thought about when Mr. Clean held you captive?”

“Yes. Every waking minute.”

Linderman gazed out the window at the neighboring office buildings, his face taking on a faraway expression. It was an angle that he hadn’t considered.

“What else is Danni thinking?” he asked.

“Your daughter may have tried to reach out to you,” Vick replied. “Most people who are held captive do. They try to make phone calls, or get messages out in some way.”

“Like Wayne did at the fast-food restaurant.”

“Exactly.”

“Where would you suggest I start?”

“You said that Danni established a bond with Skell by cooking cakes and cookies for him. Start there.”

“You’ve lost me.”

“I’m guessing your wife taught your daughter how to bake. Lots of homemade recipes.”

“Good deduction. Muriel is a master baker.”

“Ask your wife if there are any special ingredients that she uses in her cakes and cookies, or any special cooking instruments. More than likely, your daughter is having her captor purchase these things for her cooking. Those purchases might lead you to her.”

Linderman squinted his eyes as if seeing something for the first time. Vick glanced out the window, then looked back at him.

“Is that it?” she asked.

“Granny’s special holiday cookies,” he said. “It’s a secret family recipe. Muriel’s mother passed the recipe on to Muriel, who in turn passed it on to Danni. The cookies are made with dark chocolate and caramel, and are out of this world delicious. Danni would have used those to get on Simon Skell’s good side.”

“And her present captor as well.”

“I think so. A gastronome would crave those cookies.”

“Are there any special ingredients that you remember?”

“Yes. A square of toffee is placed atop each cookie. The recipe called for Tom’s Toffee, which is handmade by a family-owned confectionary store in Maine. When Danni was a little girl, she used to go out to the mail box each day when she thought our shipment was coming in.”

“Is the company is still in business?”

“They were as of last Christmas. Muriel baked the cookies for a party. I saw the bag on the kitchen counter, and remembered how Danni used to pine for it.”

“Call them, and see how many shipments they’re sending to Florida,” Vick said. “Your daughter’s captor may be one of their customers.”

The fire in her boss’s eyes was intense. He rose from his chair and came around the desk. Vick rose from her chair as well, and met him halfway. He hugged her so fiercely that she thought he might break her ribs.

“You’re a star,” he said.

Part IV

Ten days later

Chapter 58

A rhythmic tapping lifted Linderman’s eyes from his morning newspaper. Two taps, followed by two more taps, then a hard knock.

He went to the motel room door, threw back the chain, and opened it. Jack Carpenter, the avenging angel, stood outside, his trusty dog by his side.

“Good morning,” Linderman said.

“The eagle has landed,” Carpenter replied.

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“It’s an old line from the movies.”

“Guess I missed that one.”

Linderman ushered Carpenter and company inside and shut the door. Of all the law enforcement people he’d worked with, Carpenter was easily the most annoying, and had an uncanny ability of getting under his skin. His use of old movie lines was a good example. They were irritating as hell, yet Carpenter kept right on using them.

“Tell me what’s going on,” Linderman said.

Carpenter drew an overripe banana from the pocket of his cargo pants and peeled away the skin. “A bag of Tom’s Toffee was delivered to the grocery up the road last night. The manager put it on the shelf behind the register, waiting for it to be picked up.”

“You saw it?”

“Yeah. I was just in the store.” From his other pocket came a second banana, which he handed to Linderman. “Eat this. It will make you feel better.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“Eat it anyway.”

Linderman went to the curtained window and sat down in the chair next to the telescope. He peeled the banana while spying on the grocery up the road. It was called Mel’s Foods, the owner a displaced New Yorker with a ponytail and a suspicious nature. The register was by the front door, an old silver machine that was manually operated. On the shelf behind the register sat a bag of Tom’s Toffee, the shiny silver and red colors hard to miss. He felt his heartbeat quicken, the sound reaching his ears a split-second later, like a slow, steady drumbeat.

Carpenter pulled up a chair. “Now we wait.”

He munched on the banana. He’d called Carpenter when he’d discovered that the company which made Tom’s Toffee had been shipping to a store in Marathon in the Florida Keys for the past six years. Carpenter knew Florida better than anyone, and had explained the Keys to him.

“You have to watch your step down there,” Carpenter had warned him. “There’s a lot of dirty business going on. Drugs, smuggling, that sort of shit. The natives are a tight knit community who don’t take kindly to strangers. You start poking your nose where it doesn’t belong, and soon everyone will know.”

“I think Danni is being held in Marathon,” he’d said.

“I’ll help you find her, if you want,” Carpenter had replied.

He’d taken Carpenter up on his offer. The decision had pissed off everyone in the FBI’s North Miami office, only he didn’t care what his fellow agents thought. Carpenter knew how the natives thought, and was the right person for the job.

They’d driven down to Marathon together. Carpenter had made several suggestions which Linderman had decided to follow. He’d made Linderman grow a beard, get a sun tan, and change his wardrobe to sandals, ragged T-shirts, and Bermuda shorts, the idea being to make him look like a Conch, which was what the locals called themselves.

Carpenter had also made him pick a team of agents who could pass as Conchs. No pasty-faced guys with short-hair cuts, or women with toned bodies and steely gazes. People in the Keys could smell a policeman a mile away, and they could smell an FBI agent five miles away. The team had to look right.

Linderman had picked four Latino FBI agents for his team. Their names were Jesus Aguilla, Frank Sanchez, Nester Eslava, and Javier Nocerino. The four agents had worked undercover in Miami infiltrating the drug cartels, and knew how to keep a low profile. They were checked into another motel down the road, pretending to be construction workers.

The fifth agent he’d picked for his team was Vick. Considering what she’d been through, it had only seemed right. Vick was staying in the same motel, and had colored her hair with silver streaks, and taken to smoking and walking around barefoot. She looked like a teen runaway, and fit in with the denizens that populated the area.

“Why don’t you take a break? I’ll keep watch while you’re gone,” Carpenter said an hour later.

Linderman was tired and out of sorts. All the waiting was eating a hole in him. He threw on his sunglasses and floppy hat and went for a walk.

His motel was a stone’s throw from the highway, and he walked with his back to the oncoming traffic to the marina just down the road. The marina was small and dingy, the fishing boats it harbored sporting names like Not Home and To Each His Own. He stood on the edge of the dock and drank in the scenery.

It was hard not to fall in love with the Keys. Every view was a postcard just waiting to be shot. Yet knowing that Danni was being held here darkened his perspective. His daughter’s captor had chosen to live here because the locals were prone to keeping their mouths shut, even when they saw questionable things. That didn’t mean they were bad people. It just meant that bad people were able to live among them.

A boat with an inboard motor puttered into the harbor. The man at the wheel had slicked back hair like a flamenco dancer and a diamond stud in his ear. He waved to Linderman and tossed him a rope. Linderman tied him up, and he jumped out.

“Muchas gracias,” the man said.

Linderman spied a fishing pole lying in the boat.

“How the fish biting?” Linderman asked.

“Don’t ask me,” the man replied.

The man walked off the dock and headed up the road. He was well dressed — designer jeans, leather shoes with no socks, a glittering Rolex — while his accent was hard on the vowels, perhaps South American. Like so many people Linderman had encountered in the Keys, it was impossible to know what his story was.

Linderman’s cell phone vibrated. Muriel calling. His wife thought he was out of town on an investigation. He hated lying to her, but did not want her to share the burden of his search. She had already been through enough.

“Good morning,” he answered.

“Hi. I just wanted to check in, see how you were,” she said.

“I’m okay. How about you?”

“You sound out of sorts. Are you sure everything is all right?”

“Yes. I’m fine.”

“We got an invitation for dinner Friday. I wanted to see if you’d be back by then.”

Friday was two days away. He wanted to say yes, he’d be home, but there was no way to know what the next few hours or days would bring.

“I wish I knew,” he said.

“So it’s no.”

Muriel sounded put out. Like she thought he was letting work kill what little social life they had.

“Can you let them know by tomorrow?” he asked.

“I guess. It’s a barbecue. Nothing fancy.”

“I’ll do everything I possibly can to be there,” he promised.

“Okay. Are you sure everything’s all right? You sound awful.”

Linderman started to tell a lie but got no further. The flashy guy with the South American accent was strolling down the shoulder of the highway toward the marina. Cradled in his arms was a brown paper bag stuffed with groceries. Peeking out of the top was the Tom’s Toffee bag, the silver and red colors lit up by the sun. It was him.

Linderman looked further up the road. Carpenter had come out of their room and was standing in the shade of the motel. He was holding a camera with a zoom lens, and was shooting photographs of the South American.

All the bases were covered.

The South American drew closer. Linderman turned around so as not to stare. He noticed a name printed on the side of the boat. Daddy’s Little Girl.

It was all Linderman could do not to kill their suspect as he came down the dock.

Chapter 59

Daddy’s Little Girl motored out of the harbor and disappeared from view. Carpenter appeared clutching his camera, which he lifted to his eyes.

“Is he going to another boat?” Linderman asked.

“To an island,” Carpenter said.

“Let me see.”

Marathon had several small islands just off its shore, some inhabited, some not. As Linderman watched, Daddy’s Little Girl headed for an island overgrown with foliage. A small dock jutted out from a stand of mangroves.

“He’s right around the corner,” Linderman said.

“Your girl talked to him inside the grocery store,” Carpenter said. “Maybe she found out who he is.”

Vick was waiting outside Linderman’s motel room. She had taken to wearing her T-shirt pulled out and smearing on her lipstick, and looked like white trash. Once inside the room, she explained what had happened.

“I went into the market to buy a soda, and the guy was paying for his groceries at the cash register,” she said. “The owner of the market took the bag of Tom’s Toffee off the shelf, and added it to the bag without being asked. Like it was a pre-order.”

“What else did he buy?” Linderman asked.

“Milk, butter, a five pound bag of sugar, caramel, chocolate.”

Those were the ingredients for Granny’s special holiday cookies. There was no doubt in Linderman’s mind they had found the right person.

“As the guy started to leave, the owner said “See you tomorrow, Humberto’,” Vick said. “When I went outside, he was standing by the door with a grin on his face.”

“Why?” Linderman asked.

“He propositioned me. I laughed and walked away.”

Linderman booted up his laptop and got on the Internet. Using Google, he found a detailed map of Marathon, and located the island where Daddy’s Little Girl had gone. It was the westernmost point of Marathon, and had a name. Manatee Key.

His next stop was the property appraiser’s web site for the Keys. There was enough information there to get him started. Manatee Key had been purchased in 2002 by Excelsior Holdings, Ltd, a Venezuelan-based shipping company. The island was three acres in size, and contained a main house, a guest house, a swimming pool, and a basketball court. It was valued at just under ten million dollars.

Linderman sent an email to the National Security Agency in Fort Meade, Maryland, requesting information on Excelsior Holdings. NSA knew more about foreign companies doing business in the United States than any other federal agency, and hopefully would be able to shed some light on the company. His next step was to call the FBI’s North Miami Office, and request satellite reconnaissance photos be taken of Manatee Key. Satellite photos were a common tool within the FBI, and there was always a waiting list. He specified that the request was high priority, and folded his cell.

He went to the window and parted the curtain. He was ready to grab a boat and storm Manatee Key, only he knew how foolish that would be. Danni had survived this long, and if there was a God in heaven, she would survive another day.

He glanced at Vick, who sat on the floor with Carpenter’s dog. It was a playful side to her that he hadn’t seen before, the little girl she’d once been.

“What next?” Vick asked, rubbing the dog’s tummy.

“We sit and wait,” Linderman said.

At five o’clock that night, the satellite photographs of Manatee Key were emailed to Linderman’s laptop. A few minutes later, the NSA report on Excelsior arrived as well.

Linderman printed everything on his portable printer. He was torn as to which to dive into first. He decided to look at the photographs, hoping to find some visible evidence of his daughter which had been captured by the satellite.

He laid the photos on the bed. Each was an overhead shot of the property that had been taken at thirty-second intervals. The island was overgrown with towering palm trees and bamboo which obscured most of the grounds. There were no visible signs of Danni, or for that matter, any other female. The only person caught by the satellite was a grossly overweight man in a Speedo lying on a recliner by the swimming pool. With a fat cigar in one hand and a tall drink in the other, he was the picture of the good life.

Vick pointed at a photo showing the rear of the house.

“I see three pairs of shoes,” she said.

Linderman brought his head down for a better look. From above, the shoes looked like footprints in concrete.

“Good catch,” he said.

“Any sign of your daughter?”

“No. To be honest, I didn’t expect to see her.”

“They’re keeping her inside.”

“Yes. At least during the day.”

“Guess what?” Carpenter sat cross-legged on the floor reading the NSA report, his dog’s head resting in his lap. “The guy who bought the toffee isn’t your daughter’s captor.”

Something dropped in the pit of Linderman’s stomach.

“He isn’t?” the FBI agent said.

“No. That clown was just a gopher. Your daughter’s captor is a fat cat named Oliver Maldonado. You need to read this.”

Linderman took the report from Carpenter and began to read. Oliver Maldonado was a fifty-five year old self-made millionaire, and the president of Excelsior Holdings. Back in 2001, he’d gotten into hot water with the Venezuelan authorities. A pretty waitress had gone missing from a discotheque in Caracas. The police got a tip that she was being held captive at Maldonado’s home, and went to investigate.

When the police tried to enter the house, they were met with gunfire. They stormed inside, and arrested Maldonado and three employees. The waitress was on the patio with a gunshot wound to the abdomen. An autopsy revealed that the bullet was not from the police’s guns, nor from any weapons found inside the house.

At Maldonado’s trial, his defense attorneys claimed the police shot the waitress, who was at the house under her own free will. The prosecutors couldn’t prove otherwise, and Maldonado was found not guilty. He left the country a short while later.

Filled with disgust, Linderman tossed the report to the floor.

“He’s a cold-blooded murderer,” the FBI agent said.

“Yes, he is,” Carpenter replied.

“We can’t let him kill Danni.”

“No, we can’t.”

Carpenter rose from the floor without waking his dog. He looked directly at Vick, who leaned against the wall with her arms crossed. A knowing look registered in Vick’s face, and she pushed herself off the wall.

“I’m thirsty. You guys want anything to drink?” she asked.

Both men declined. Vick left, shutting the door behind her.

“What’s your plan?” Linderman asked.

“It’s pretty simple,” Carpenter said. “We shoot Maldonado and whoever else is on that island before they harm your daughter.”

Chapter 60

Daddy’s Little Girl returned to the marina the following afternoon with the flashy Humberto at the wheel. Pulling up to the dock, Humbero threw the rope to Linderman to be tied up, hopped out, and engaged in some harmless chit-chat. Then, he headed down the shoulder of the highway toward Mel’s Grocery with a spring in his step. If he’d sensed he was walking into a trap, he didn’t show it.

Humberto never made it to the grocery. Vick sauntered out of her motel room and struck up a conversation. Wearing pink shorts and heavy makeup, she looked particularly trashy. Humberto acted smitten.

Carpenter joined Linderman on the dock. He’d been hiding in the bushes with his dog, and was munching on a piece of beef jerky.

“The old honey trap,” Carpenter said.

“Whatever gets the job done,” Linderman replied.

They watched Vick and Humbero go into the motel room. Thirty seconds later, Linderman’s cell phone vibrated. It was Vick.

“We’ve got him,” she said.

“Did he put up a fight?” Linderman asked.

“Yeah. It took three police officers to hold him down.”

“Nice going. Keep him in the room until we get back.”

“Will do. Good luck, Ken.”

“Thanks, Rachel.”

Linderman folded the phone and climbed into a rented boat tied up to the dock. Carpenter cranked up the outboard motor and soon they were on open water. The boat was filled with fishing gear, poles, a plastic pail filled with live bait, and cooler for their catch. Jack’s dog sat in the bow, wearing a bright red bandana. It filled out the picture, and made them look like a pair of old hippies, a common sight in the Keys.

A mild chop was blowing from the east. Linderman rode with one hand holding the rim of his Marlins’ cap, the other clutching the Glock in his pocket. He should have been apprehensive, maybe even a little scared, but he wasn’t. He had waited six years for this day, and felt relieved to have finally reached the end of his long journey.

A patrol boat sitting in the bay tooted its horn. The four Mexican-American FBI agents who made up the rest of their team were onboard, ready to follow them onto the island. Taking off his cap, Linderman waved to them.

They neared Manatee Key. The waters were crystal clear, filled with coral and colorful fish. Carpenter killed the engine, then grabbed a paddle and started to row.

“Current’s strong. Give me a hand,” he said.

Their boat was drifting away from the island. Linderman felt the thrush of panic and grabbed the other paddle. He rowed like there was no tomorrow, and propelled the boat through the water to the dock. Their bow banged on a piling.

“We’ve got company,” Carpenter said.

One of Maldonado’s men came walking down the dock. He was another flashy dresser, and wore a billowing red silk shirt and white linen pants, his spiked hair standing straight up. He pointed a sawed-off shotgun at their boat.

“Leave,” the man said.

“Can you spare a gallon of gas to get us back to the mainland?” Carpenter asked.

“You can row,” the man replied.

“The current’s murder. My friend almost had a heart attack.”

Linderman felt the man’s suspicious gaze. He looked up and smiled feebly. It seemed to soften him.

“Stay here. I’ll be right back,” the man said.

The man turned around and started to leave. Carpenter hopped onto the dock, and drew a 1908 Colt Pocket Hammerless from his pants, which he stuck in the man’s back.

“Put your gun on the dock. Then turn around. Do it real slow,” Carpenter said.

The man did not lay his shotgun down. Instead, he pointed the barrel at the ground, and slowly turned around. Linderman drew his Glock and stepped out of the boat.

“FBI,” he said.

“Where is your warrant? You have no right to come here,” the man said.

Linderman pulled the search warrant from his back pocket and waved it in the man’s face without taking his eyes off him. “Lay your weapon on the dock.”

“I don’t take orders from you.”

“I won’t tell you again,” the FBI agent said.

The shotgun came up fast. Linderman shot the man three times in the chest. The bullets shredded his pretty shirt, and he flew backwards over the dock into the water, sinking to the bottom with air bubbles pouring from his mouth. Standing on the edge of the dock, Linderman waved to the patrol boat that it was safe to join them. The sound of a sputtering engine echoed across the water.

“Sounds like they’re stalled,” Carpenter said. “You want to wait for them?”

“No. Come on.”

They ran down the dock and stepped through a tall hedge into another world. The island was as lush as a jungle, the shaded ground noticeably cooler. The path they were on went two ways. Carpenter pointed to his left, where the pool and guest house were.

“I hear singing,” he whispered.

Linderman heard the music as well. It sounded like bad karaoke.

“I’ll deal with this guy. Go find your baby,” Carpenter said.

Linderman sprinted up the path in the other direction, which led to the main house. Carpenter’s dog ran ahead of him. He turned to make sure Carpenter was okay with it, but his friend was already gone.

The path led to a one-story Spanish Colonial with a screened lanai filled with orchids and beautifully plumed Macaws and Cockatoos free of cages. Water trickled down a man-made waterfall, the sound as sweet as music.

He gained entrance through a screen door. The birds began to flap their wings and squawk nosily. The dog crossed the lanai to silence them.

“Get back here,” Linderman said.

The birds continued to complain. A glass slider opened, and a grossly overweight man wearing a black Speedo stepped onto the lanai. He was a poster boy for indulgence, his skin so darkened by the sun that it looked radioactive.

“Enough,” the man said to the birds.

“Oliver Maldonado?” Linderman asked.

Seeing him for the first time, the overweight man stepped back in alarm.

“That is I. Who are you? And why is that dog here?” he asked.

“I’m with the FBI. You’re under arrest,” Linderman said.

“You have no right to be in my home. Leave!”

“Put your hands where I can see them.”

“I will do nothing of the sort.”

Gunfire echoed across the property, followed by a man’s hoarse scream, then the sound of a body hitting water with a loud Smack! The birds let out a chorus of high-pitched screams. Maldonado seized the distraction and vanished inside.

“Get him,” Linderman said.

The dog gave chase. Linderman followed and entered the house. He stood inside a high-ceilinged space filled with dark furniture and plush leather couches. The trappings of wealth were everywhere — a sixty-inch plasma TV, a giant aquarium filled with exotic fish, a bar befitting a posh nightclub, the walls covered with electric guitars autographed by famous musicians — but no Maldonado.

“Where is he?” Linderman asked.

The dog ran to a bookcase which covered one wall, and began to frantically scratch its base with his front paws. Linderman followed, the feeling of panic again taking hold. He had not come this far to lose Danni.

The books were fake, and glued together. He pulled the bookcase away from the wall and sent it toppling to the floor. Behind it was a darkened passageway.

He ran down it with the dog.

At the passageway’s end was a locked door. He kicked it down, then stepped over the door and entered a narrow hallway with a skylight. Maldonado stood at the hallway’s end, holding a gun by his side, his entire body trembling.

“You have no right to be here,” Maldonado protested.

Linderman saw another door at the hallway’s end. Danni was on the other side of that door. Maldonado was going to shoot her, just like the waitress in Caracas.

“I order you to leave,” Maldonado said.

“She’s my daughter,” Linderman said.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“The girl you’re holding prisoner is my daughter.”

“Get out of my house!”

“Admit what you did.”

Maldonado grabbed the door knob. The bullet hit him in the stomach. He staggered backward, then slid to the floor and lay on his back.

“You shot me,” he gasped.

Linderman kicked his gun away, then stood over the man who’d robbed him of his daughter’s laughter for six years. Hanging around Maldonado’s neck was a small key. Linderman knew what the key was for, and ripped it from his neck.

The dog had planted himself at Maldonado’s side. It seemed fitting that a dog would usher Maldonado into the next life, and Linderman left him to die.

He entered a small room with white walls and iron bars on the windows. An island in the room’s center was covered with trays of cookies about to be put in the oven. Each cookie had a small square of Tom’s Toffee on top.

The island divided the room into two distinct spaces. One half was a kitchen, with a stove, a sink, and a range, with a variety of pots and pans hanging from the ceiling. The other half was a living area, with a cot, a comfortable chair, and a pile of paperback books stacked on the floor.

“Hello?” Linderman said.

He could hear another person’s breathing. Walking around the island, he came upon a young woman sitting on the floor with her back against the wall, clutching a small paring knife in her hands.

“Get away from me!” she screamed.

His heart nearly split in two. It was not his daughter. Or at least not the daughter he remembered. Her hair was cropped short, and had been dyed a horrible black, her once lovely face robbed of its youth and so many unfulfilled dreams.

“I said, get away from me!” she said.

He looked into her eyes. His little girl was still there, hiding behind the wall of captivity and suffering. It was all he could do not to break out in tears.

“Hi, Danni,” he said.

“I’ll cut your fucking heart out,” she threatened.

“Do you know who I am?”

“I’ll kill you!”

He laid his Glock on the island, then removed his baseball cap and placed it down as well. He took a step toward her, his arms spread out in greeting.

“It’s me. Your father.”

She blinked, and then she blinked again.

“Daddy? Daddy!”

His daughter jumped off the floor. Encircling her ankles were a pair of leg irons, which were chained to the wall. He used the key to free her, than gathered her in his arms.

“You’re safe, honey,” he said.

“Did you shoot them?” she cried.

“Yes, honey.”

“Oh, Daddy, I knew you’d come someday.”

Hugging his daughter, he felt her heart pound against his rib cage. And with that sensation, the dark cloud that had enveloped him went away, and the world became normal again, the sunlight streaming through the windows so bright that it hurt his eyes, the anger and frustration and rage bottled up inside of him evaporating like a puff of smoke. Never again would the desire to kill another human being overwhelm him; never again would the black angel in his soul seek revenge. Those emotions were dead, and only his love for his daughter and everything she represented in his life remained.

His cell phone vibrated in his pocket. Thinking it was Carpenter or Vick or one of the other FBI agents involved in the rescue, he took it out, and stared at its face.

He was wrong. It wasn’t them at all.

He handed the phone to his daughter.

“Say hello to your mother,” he said.

Epilogue

Two guards came for Crutch early one morning.

“Moving day,” one of the guards announced.

“Where are we going?” Crutch asked.

“You’re being transferred to a federal prison in Pennsylvania. Seems you left some unfinished business up there.”

They helped him dress. Muzzle, handcuffs, a thick leather belt locked around his waist with a chain locking it to the handcuffs. A real fashion statement.

He was marched across the yard. Life was defined by moments. Some came by accident, and forever changed the course of one’s existence. Others were the products of design, and were the results of careful planning, and patience.

This was one of those moments, he thought.

They came to the building where Crutch had lived for ten years. Going inside, he was led to his corner cell, and his handcuffs removed. A cardboard box sat on his bed.

“Don’t take more than can fit in the box,” the same guard explained. “And don’t take off your muzzle.”

“No, sir,” Crutch replied.

Crutch began to pack. He took his time, weighing which items to take, and which to leave behind, never taking his eye off the guards a few feet away.

Soon his moment came. Another guard entered the cellblock, and engaged his two handlers in conversation. Crutch picked up a rubber band from the bookcase, and slipped it around his wrist. He snapped it loudly. The guards paid the noise no attention.

He knelt down beside his bed, his back to the three men. Lifting the bed’s hollow leg, he unscrewed the bottom, and withdrew the metal shiv and the memory stick hidden inside. He slipped the shiv up his sleeve, using the rubber band to hold it secure. The memory stick he tossed into the box.

Rising to his feet, he went to the cell door. The guards were engaged in a serious conversation about college football, and had seen nothing.

“Ready when you are,” he announced.

His traveling restraints were reinstated. Soon he was walking across the yard with the guards, holding his box. He inquired about the weather in Pennsylvania.

“It’s colder than a witch’s tit,” the guard said. “You’re going to freeze your ass off.”

It was a delicious image, one that he would savor whenever he thought of this day. He had already decided that he was not going to Pennsylvania. Once outside these walls, he would be taking a journey to somewhere else. Where, he was not sure.

He passed through a gate into a small yard. A school bus with blacked-out windows sat with its engine running.

“Have a nice trip,” the guard said.

Crutch climbed inside. Two armed guards and a driver were waiting for him. Looking around, he counted five other inmates taking the trip with him. His new best friends.

One of the armed guards escorted Crutch to a middle seat, and had him sit down. The guard took his box, and placed it on a rack above his head.

“Don’t move, and keep your mouth shut,” the armed guard said.

“Are we going on a plane? I hate planes. They make me sick,” Crutch said.

“I told you to shut up.”

Another inmate howled. He was a skinhead, and covered in carnival-like tattoos.

“What’s so funny?” the guard asked.

“He’s wearing a muzzle,” the skinhead said.

Soon they were on the road. The skinhead made barnyard noises under his breath, trying to draw Crutch’s ire. Crutch sat with his head bowed, saying nothing. He imagined the trees passing by their blackened windows and the smell of leaves and all the things he’d been deprived of inside prison. After a few miles, he locked eyes with the skinhead.

“Look at what I have,” he whispered.

Twisting his handcuffs, he stuck his fingers up his sleeve, and drew out the shiv an inch at a time. The skinhead’s face became a thundercloud.

“You gonna make a run for it?” the skinhead whispered.

“Yes. Care to join me?”

“Yeah. I’m doing life.”

“How about the others?”

The skinhead made eye contact with the other inmates on the bus. Silent communication, honed by years behind bars, far more efficient than words.

“We’re in,” the skinhead told him.

“All of you?”

“Yeah. What’s the plan?”

Crutch directed his attention to the front of the bus. The two armed guards stood in the aisle, pretending to be watching them. In reality, they were both day-dreaming, their thoughts light years away. The driver was not much better, whistling under his breath as he handled the wheel, a cup of coffee splashing in a cup holder. Crutch imagined biting each one of them in the neck, their warm blood racing down his throat.

Kill them all, said the voice inside his head.

“Kill them all,” Crutch whispered.

“Then what?” asked the skinhead.

Author’s note:

John Brennan Crutchley was a real-life human vampire who has been linked to over thirty murders in the eastern United States. He died in a Florida prison in 2002.

Acknowledgment:

The following work proved invaluable in the research and writing of this novel. Whoever Fights Monsters by Robert Kessler, Mind Hunter by John Douglas, Linkage analysis: modus operandi, ritual, and signature in serial sexual crime by Robert R. Hazelwood & Janet I. Warren, Serial Murder, Multi-Disciplinary Perspectives for Investigators published by the Behavioral Analysis Unit of the National Center for the Analysis of Violent Crime, Robert J. Morton, Editor, Mark J. Hilts, Co-Editor, plus a number of unpublished works on serial killers presented at the 2009 International Homicide Investigators Association. Above all, a special thanks to Andrew Vita, Team Adam Consultant for the National Center for Missing and Exploited Children and former Associate Director/Enforcement for the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco & Firearms, whose help made this book possible.