Kitabı oxu: «The Immortals»

Praise for J.T. Ellison

“Carefully orchestrated plot twists and engrossing characters… The story moves at breakneck speed… Flawed yet identifiable characters and genuinely terrifying villains populate this impressive and arresting thriller.”

—Publishers Weekly on Judas Kiss [starred review]

“Crime fiction has a new name to watch.”

—John Connolly

“Combines The Silence of the Lambs with The Wire.”

—January Magazine on The Cold Room

“Darkly compelling and thoroughly chilling…everything a great crime thriller should be.”

—Allison Brennan on All the Pretty Girls

“A twisty, creepy and wonderful book…Ellison is relentless and grabs the reader from the first page and refuses to let go until the soul tearing climax.”

—Crimespree on 14

“[A] tight and powerful story. Judas Kiss moves at a rapid-fire rate…rushing like adrenaline through the bloodstream.”

—The Strand Magazine

“Flawlessly plotted, with well-defined characters and conflict…quite simply a gem.”

—RT Book Reviews [Top Pick] on The Cold Room

“A terrific lead character, terrific suspense, terrific twists…a completely convincing debut.”

—Lee Child on All the Pretty Girls

J.T. Ellison
The Immortals

For Jill Thompson (ti amo molto!)

and my darling Randy.

These eight words the Rede fulfill:

“An ye harm none, do what ye will.”

—Doreen Valiente

The Wiccan Rede

Because I could not stop for Death,

He kindly stopped for me;

The carriage held but just ourselves

And Immortality.

—Emily Dickinson

Because I Could Not Stop for Death

Contents

Third Quarter Moon Samhain (Halloween)

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Waning Crescent Moon Twenty-five Percent of Full Hallowmas (All Saints' Day)

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Waning Crescent Moon Twenty Percent of Full Feast of Odin (All Souls' Day)

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

Chapter Forty-Three

Chapter Forty-Four

Chapter Forty-Five

Chapter Forty-Six

Chapter Forty-Seven

Chapter Forty-Eight

Chapter Forty-Nine

Chapter Fifty

Chapter Fifty-One

Chapter Fifty-Two

Chapter Fifty-Three

Chapter Fifty-Four

Chapter Fifty-Five

Chapter Fifty-Six

Chapter Fifty-Seven

Chapter Fifty-Eight

Waning Crescent Moon Fifteen Percent of Full Three Days Past Samhain (Halloween)

Chapter Fifty-Nine

Chapter Sixty

Chapter Sixty-One

Acknowledgments

Third Quarter Moon Samhain (Halloween)

One

Nashville, Tennessee

October 31

3:30 p.m.

Taylor Jackson stood at attention, arms behind her back, her dress blues itching her wrists. She was feeling more than a bit embarrassed. She’d asked for this to be done without ceremony, just a simple here you go, you’re back in our good graces, but the chief was having nothing of it. He’d insisted she not only receive her lieutenant’s badge again, but be decorated as well, in a very public ceremony. Her union rep was thrilled, and at her direction, had dropped the lawsuit she’d been forced to file against the department when they demoted her without cause. Taylor was pleased, as well. She’d been fighting to get reinstated, and she had to admit it was nice to put all of this behind her. But the pomp and circumstance was a bit much.

It had been a long afternoon. Taylor felt like a show pony, was flushed with the overly exuberant praise of her career, her involvement in catching the Conductor, a serial killer who’d killed two women back-to-back, kidnapped a third and fled Nashville with Taylor hot on his heels. She’d arrested him in Italy, and the story had immediately caught international headlines, because at the same time, she’d been party to the capture of one of Italy’s most notorious serial killers, Il Macellaio. In the world of sound bites and news at your fingertips, taking two serial killers into custody had garnered so much attention that the chief had been forced into action.

Not only was she being reinstated; Taylor had command of the murder squad again, and her team was being reassembled. Detectives Lincoln Ross and Marcus Wade were shipped back up from the South Sector, and after a long discussion with the chief, she’d even talked him into allowing Renn McKenzie to become part of the permanent team. She had her boys back.

Most of them.

Pete Fitzgerald had fallen off the face of the earth. Taylor had last talked to him when he was in Barbados, anchored and waiting for a new part for his boat’s engine. He’d called to let her know he thought he’d seen their old nemesis, and she hadn’t heard from him since. She was sick with worry, convinced that Fitz had been taken by the Pretender, a killer so obscene, so cruel that he invaded her dreams and consumed her waking moments. A killer Taylor hadn’t caught; the one who’d quite literally gotten away.

Her concerns had been compounded just last week, when the Coast Guard had picked up a distress signal off the coast of North Carolina. The GPS beacon matched the registered number for Fitz’s boat. Despite countless days of searching, nothing had been found. The Coast Guard had been forced to call off the search, and the police in North Carolina couldn’t get involved because there was no crime to be investigated. She had a call in to the North Carolina State Bureau of Investigations, in the hope they would see things differently, but she hadn’t heard anything yet.

Taylor tried to shake off the thought of Fitz, of his body broken and battered, of what the Pretender was doing to him, or had done. The guilt spilled through her blood, making it chilly. She’d issued a challenge to the Pretender, told him to come and get her. Instead, she was positive he’d taken her friend, the man closest to her, aside from Baldwin. Her father figure. She had probably gotten Fitz killed, and she found that knowledge desperately hard to stomach.

She looked into the crowd, the sea of blue seated in compact rows before her. John Baldwin, her fiancé, sat in the front, grinning. His hair was too long again, the black waves falling over his forehead and ears in a tumble. She resisted the urge to roll her eyes; that was sure to get on the evening news, and she didn’t want any more attention than she already had. She touched her engagement ring instead, twisting the channel-set diamonds around her finger.

Her team sat beside him: Lincoln Ross, hair grown out just enough to slip in some tiny dreadlocks; Marcus Wade, brown-eyed and sweetly happy. He was getting serious with his girlfriend, and Taylor had never seen him so content. The new member of the team, Renn McKenzie, was at Marcus’s left. Taylor saw McKenzie’s partner, Hugh Bangor, a few rows back. They’d been very discreet—only Taylor and Baldwin knew they were an item.

Even her old boss Mitchell Price was there, smiling benevolently at her. He’d been a casualty of the events that led to Taylor losing her badge in the first place, but had moved on. He was running a personal protection service catering to country music stars, and had made it clear that anytime Taylor wanted to bail on Nashville Metro, she was welcome to join him.

Fitz was the only one missing. She forced the lump in her throat away.

The chief was pinning something to her uniform now. He stood back with a wide smile and started clapping. The audience followed suit, and Taylor wished she could disappear. This was not what she wanted, this open, public enthusiasm on her behalf.

The chief gestured to the microphone. Taylor took a deep breath and stepped to the podium.

“Thank you all for being here today. I appreciate it more than you know. But we really should be honoring the entire team who participated. I couldn’t have done any of this without the help of Detective Renn McKenzie, Supervisory Special Agent John Baldwin, Detective James Highsmythe of the London Metropolitan Police, and all the officers of the Metro Police who participated, in small ways and in large, on the case. The city of Nashville owes these men and women a debt of gratitude. Now, enough of the hoopla. Let’s go back to work.”

Laughter rippled through the crowd, and they clapped again. Lincoln whistled, two fingers stuck in his mouth, and this time she did roll her eyes. Baldwin winked at her, his clear green gaze full of pride. With her back ramrod straight and her ears burning, she thanked the chief and the other dignitaries, nodded at her new boss, Commander Joan Huston, and made her way off the dais. People began milling about; the language of the force rang in her ears like a mother’s lullaby. She was back, and it felt damn good.

Baldwin met her, took her hand. “So how’s the Investigator of the Year?”

She took a deep breath and blew it out noisily. “Don’t start,” she said. “This is mortifying enough as it is.”

He laughed and kissed her palm. A promise for later.

Lincoln and Marcus both hugged her, and McKenzie shook her hand.

“Congratulations, LT!” Lincoln’s gap-toothed smile felt like coming home, and she clapped him on the back. Price joined their group, shaking her hand gravely, his red handlebar mustache neatly trimmed and waxed for the occasion.

“What’s your first act as a newly restored lieutenant, Loot?” Marcus asked.

“Buying y’all a beer. It is Halloween, after all. Let’s get out of here. How about we head down to Mulligan’s and grab a Guinness?”

“You’re on,” Marcus said.

She gestured to her stiffly starched uniform. “I just need to change.”

“Us, too. Race you to the locker rooms.”

Ten minutes later, once again in civilian clothes—jeans, cowboy boots, a black cashmere turtleneck and gray corduroy blazer, left open—Taylor felt much more comfortable. She snapped her holster onto her belt, then risked a glance at her shield. Her phantom limb. Losing it had just about cost her everything. She lovingly caressed the gold for the briefest of moments, then attached it to her belt in front of her holster. Complete. Again. She slammed her locker shut and met the boys in the hall. She saw Baldwin’s eyes stray to her waist and pretended she didn’t see his satisfied smile.

As they left the Criminal Justice Center, Taylor’s spirits lifted. The joshing, joking group of men behind her, Baldwin in step at her side, all served to remind her how lucky she was. Now, if she could only find Fitz and do away with the Pretender, life would be grand indeed.

They’d just passed Hooters when Taylor’s cell rang. She looked at the screen, saw it was dispatch. She held up a hand and stopped on the sidewalk to answer.

“Jackson,” she said.

“Lieutenant, we need your response at a 10-64J, possible homicide, 3800 Estes Road. Repeat, 10-64J.”

The J designator made a shiver go up her spine. J meant the victim was a juvenile. She hated working crimes with kids involved.

“Roger that, Dispatch. I’m on my way.” She slapped the phone shut. “Hey, guys, I’m sorry. I’ve got to go to this scene.” She pulled her wallet out of her jacket’s interior pocket and handed Lincoln two twenties. He shook his head.

“Hell, no, LT. You’re back on the job, so are we.”

“But you’re not on today. Go on ahead.”

“No way,” Marcus said. They lined up shoulder to shoulder, a wall of testosterone and insistence. She knew better than to fight. They were all just as happy as she was to be back together.

“I’ll drive,” McKenzie offered.

She smiled at them, then turned to Baldwin. “Well, aren’t you coming, too?”

“What, the Nashville police want the help of a profiler?” he teased, his green eyes flashing.

“Of course we do. Come on then, let’s go. We’ll have to take two cars.”

They drove up West End, McKenzie in the lead, Taylor and Baldwin following. Getting to Green Hills at this time of day was difficult at best, the traffic stop-and-start, so McKenzie was leading them through the back roads. Up West End, then left on Bowling, through the gloriously wooded neighborhoods, wide green lawns, large homes set far back from the main streets.

Many of the houses were decorated for Halloween, some professionally, with complete horror tableaus on their front yards: Black-and-orange twinkling lights and tombstones and full-size mummies—some crafted with the obvious hand of a child—fake spider webs and friendly ghosts. On the corner of Bowling and Woodmont there was a large inflatable headless horseman. It was starting to get dark, and there had been rain earlier in the day. Fog rose in wispy streams from the lawns. A few jack-o’-lanterns had been lit, their insides glowing with sinister comfort.

Once they turned left onto Estes, it only took a moment to reach the address. The first responders—firefighters and EMTs—had already left. Patrol cars littered the street, crime-scene tape was strung across the road. Blue-and-white lights flashed in the evening sky, reflecting off the brick houses. Farther down the street, moving away from the commotion, small groups had started floating from door to door; the youngest trick-or-treaters escorted by their parents before full dark set in. Even if it hadn’t been Halloween, it would have been an eerie scene.

Paula Simari was there, standing by her patrol car. Her canine partner, Max, was in the backseat, grinning a doggie smile at the activity. His services had not been needed tonight, it seemed.

The five of them approached and Paula held up her hands. “Whoa. No need to bring out all the big guns. Just one body up there.” She gestured over her shoulder at the second story of an expansive Georgian red brick house. “How’s it being back in charge, Lieutenant?”

“Very nice, Officer.” Taylor liked Simari. She was good people, always ready with a quip, but knew when to be serious. “Why don’t you brief us, then we’ll take a cruise through the scene.” She signed in to the crime-scene call sheet, then handed the pen to Baldwin. By the book, that was her new middle name.

“Sure. Body is that of a seventeen-year-old male Caucasian, name Jerrold King. His sister, Letha, came home from shopping with friends—they both go to Hillsboro but they had a half day today. It’s a teachers’ in-service afternoon. Said she went into his room to borrow a CD and found him naked on the bed. She called 911 and they responded, but he was deceased when they arrived.”

“Suicide?” Taylor asked.

“Not exactly,” Simari replied grimly. “Not unless he was into pain.”

“Pain?” Baldwin said, eyebrow raised.

Simari bit her lip. “I think you should see this for yourself. That’s why I had dispatch call you directly.”

Taylor looked at her for a long moment, then shrugged. “Okay. Let’s go. Baldwin, you’re with me. Marcus, Lincoln, could you start chatting with the crowd?” She pointed to the driveway of the house next door, which was accumulating people, some dressed in costumes, some obviously just home from a day at the office. The suits outnumbered the costumes three to one. “See if anyone saw anything. McKenzie? Make sure the medical examiner is on the way. We need a death investigator and crime-scene techs.”

“Will do.”

She followed Simari up the elaborate steps of the house, through white Doric columns onto a wide brick porch. A trio of witches nestled in between two spider-webbed rocking chairs; dual arrays of orange chrysanthemums in black wrought-iron planters were parked on either side of the door, their blossoms bright and new.

Taylor took a second to wind her hair into a bun and secure it, slipped her hands into purple nitrile gloves. Baldwin followed suit—their hands suddenly all professional, no more the recipients of holy palmers’ kiss. They couldn’t afford to confuse the crime-scene techs with their own DNA, nor allow their personal relationship to affect the case. It had been difficult for Taylor at first, pretending she and Baldwin weren’t emotionally entwined. It was easier now. She was learning his detachment skills.

Simari was already gloved up, and let them in.

A teenager with rough skin and a jet-black bob sat at the foot of the stairs, white and shaking. She had black circles under her eyes and the faintest trace of dark lipstick in one corner of her mouth. Her lips were jammed together in a thin line; it seemed she knew if she opened her mouth the world would collapse.

“Lieutenant Jackson, this is Letha King. She found the body.”

Taylor bent at the waist to get to the girl’s level. “Letha. I’m so sorry for your loss. Are your parents on their way home?”

The girl didn’t meet her eye, just shook her head. Simari stepped in. “They’re out of town. We’re tracking them down now.”

Letha wrapped her arms around her waist, trying to hold herself together. Her nails were painted black, the polish wearing away. Taylor was tempted to reach out and touch her, to give a bit of warmth, of comfort, but refrained. She needed to see the body first, then she could worry about the living.

She stepped back onto the porch and whistled at McKenzie. He was on his cell phone, raised his eyebrows in question. She gestured for him to come to her. He nodded, said something briefly into the cell, then slapped it shut and bounded up the stairs. Taylor spoke quietly.

“I’ve got the victim’s sister in the house. Kid’s completely shattered. She needs to have someone with her. Would you mind?”

“Not at all. Everyone’s on their way.”

“Great, thanks. Come with me.”

They reentered the house, and Taylor led McKenzie to Letha.

“Letha, this is Detective McKenzie. He’s going to talk to you for a few minutes while we check on your brother. We’re going to go upstairs now. If you need anything, anything at all, you just ask Detective McKenzie, okay?”

The girl nodded, silent as the grave. She gave Taylor an odd feeling, a premonition that worse things were to come, though she couldn’t pinpoint why.

“How about we go into the kitchen, Letha?” McKenzie held out a hand. The girl took it and rose, unsteady on her feet, eyes blank. She allowed herself to be towed away. Shock. Poor, creepy little thing.

The staircase was mahogany, sweeping, twin rises that met together in a catwalk loft on the second floor. They took the left set of steps, Taylor unconsciously counting as they went up. Thirty-three stairs. The view down to the grand foyer was only slightly obscured by a brilliant chandelier strung with fake cobwebs, creating a gauzy veil on the downstairs. The hallway floor was wide-planked oak topped with elegant throw rugs and capriciously placed tables covered in ethnic crystal and wood tchotchkes. Tribal masks lined the corridor. The parents were either travelers or collectors.

Four doors bled off the center hall. One was open.

Taylor glanced back over her shoulder at Baldwin. His face was calm, placid, ready for anything. His eyes met hers briefly, questioning. She hadn’t realized she’d stopped in her tracks until Simari cleared her throat.

“Everything okay?”

Was it? Taylor had the strangest sense, almost like a strong hand was pushing at her chest, pushing her away from the bedroom door. She couldn’t detect any of the usual smells that accompanied a violent crime scene—blood, fear, human waste. It smelled…like flowers. Once she realized that the scent was coming from the open bedroom, she placed it. Jasmine. The murder scene smelled like jasmine. Once her nose got used to that idea, she did catch just the tiniest hint of copper, tangy underneath the cloying sweetness.

The odd sensation left her. She smiled at Simari.

“Sorry. I’m fine. Just…smelling.”

“I know,” Simari said. “It’s weird. I don’t usually expect boys to wear perfume, but what do I know? In this world, anything is possible. He’s in there.” She pointed toward the open door, let Taylor take the lead.

“Probably the sister’s. Though I didn’t catch it downstairs,” Baldwin said.

Sometimes at a crime scene Taylor had the overwhelming feeling that she was on camera, that some unseen videographer tracked her every move. She was fodder for the silver screen, walking down a darkened hallway while the audience knew something horrible lay just beyond her grasp. Look out behind you, don’t go into that dark space alone, better run out of the safety of the house into the forest when the killer is coming after you with a knife. Goose bumps paraded up and down her arms. God, she hated horror movies.

She shook it off. Halloween always got to her. A crime scene on Halloween was just designed to play into her over-active imagination.

Steeled, she stepped into Jerrold King’s bedroom.

She struggled to take in the whole scene and not make judgments. Her job as lead investigator was to make sure her detectives didn’t jump to conclusions, didn’t make snap decisions about the case. She emphasized considered opinions, reasoning, a belief in the evidence.

But Jerrold King’s body made her want to discard all she’d been taught.

She edged closer. He was naked, lying on his back, arms spread to the sides. His mouth was open, slack, with small edges of spittle gathered in the corners. His lips were blue; eyes unfocused and slitted. There were no ligature marks, no strangulation bruises. Granted, that could show up later—contusions took time to develop. But for now, his naked skin was free of visible hematomas. In their place were bloody channels, carved into his flesh. The red-on-white effect was startling, gapes in the tender skin. A sharp knife, no doubt. But these weren’t stab wounds. There was a distinct pattern to the slashes.

She was a foot away from the bed now, and carefully bent to get a closer look. Baldwin was on the other side of the bed. She looked up from the wounds into his worried eyes.

“No,” she said. “It can’t be.”

“It most certainly can,” he said.

“Urban legend,” Simari said.

Taylor stepped back a few feet to see if she could make sense of the wounds. Yes, from a distance, she could see it plainly.

Five slashes, connected at the points, outlined in a ragged circle.

A pentacle, carved into the dead boy’s chest.

Two

The scream startled Taylor, and she jerked back from the body.

Simari’s shoulder radio crackled and Taylor’s cell rang almost simultaneously. She looked at the caller ID. It was Lincoln.

“Yes?” she answered.

“You need to get down here now. We’ve got a serious problem.”

“What?”

“There’s another one.”

“Another victim?”

Simari was already hightailing it out of Jerrold King’s bedroom. Taylor slapped her phone shut. She and Baldwin followed Simari down the staircase and onto the porch. The screaming was coming from the other side of the street, three houses down.

“Help! Please help me!”

A woman stood in the driveway, waving her arms. Lincoln was standing by her, unsuccessfully trying to calm her down.

The street was nearly as bright as day—all the houses’ front lights were on, headlights from the influx of patrol cars cut through the murk, multitudes of Maglites were trained on the faces of people standing frozen in their driveways. As they ran up the street, Taylor felt all eyes turn to them. Her boots clanged against the asphalt, ringing out louder than Baldwin’s steps. She had an odd thought; terror wasn’t a familiar feeling in this neighborhood.

They reached Lincoln, and Taylor skidded to a stop, some loose gravel nearly causing her to turn an ankle. She caught her breath.

“Ma’am, I’m Taylor Jackson, Metro Homicide. What’s the problem?”

“My daughter. My daughter is—” Her voice caught, the sobs breaking free from her chest. “She’s dead in her room.”

“Show us,” Taylor said.

“I can’t. I can’t go back in there.”

Imploring Lincoln with her eyes, Taylor nodded at Baldwin and Simari. They hurried into the house, strangely similar to the King home, and up a sweeping staircase. The scent of jasmine lingered in the air. Taylor’s chest felt tight.

The scene was easy to find. There were towels scattered on the floor, the mother must have been bringing up some laundry. A plaque on the girl’s door had the name Ashley in pink bubble letters. Below it was a stop sign that screamed, Ashley’s Environs. KEEP OUT!

The door was ajar. Taylor stepped over the wad of towels into the girl’s room.

She was faceup on the bed, arms stretched out over her head. Her brown hair was pulled into a ponytail and a green mask had dried on her skin. There was an open bottle of nail polish on the bedside table, the scent acrid. Giving herself a home spa treatment, a facial, a manicure. Typical afternoon in a teenage girl’s life, her innocent ablutions cruelly interrupted by death.

She’d been stripped like the previous victim. The skin of her breasts and her groin was nearly translucent compared to the tan skin around it. She’d either been lying out in the sun or using a tanning bed recently; the brown skin only slightly dulled the knife slashes in her stomach. Familiar cuts, five points connected by a circle of rent flesh.

“Some sort of overdose, I’d expect,” Baldwin said, gesturing to the girl’s blue lips.

“Same as Jerrold King. What in the hell happened here this afternoon?”

A frantic movement caught Taylor’s eye, her peripheral vision picking up hurried motions outside, lights swinging crazily in the semidarkness. Maglites, their blue-white beams bobbing and weaving up the street, away from her location. She abandoned the body, went to the window. People were running back and forth, screaming, crying, cursing. The sharp wail of a siren split the nubilous air. Patrol cars were edging their way through the crowds, driving farther up Estes, toward Abbott Martin Drive. One kept going, disappeared over the edge of the hill.

When her cell phone rang, she almost didn’t answer. Running away was sounding like an excellent option. Though if she were honest with herself, the adrenaline was building in her gut. Intrigue. A new case. She opened her phone.

“What in the hell is going on?” Taylor snapped.

“I need you now!” Lincoln yelled into the phone.

“I’m on my way.” She turned to Baldwin. “We need to go.”

“What in the world is happening?” he asked.

“I don’t know. But I think we better find out.”

They rushed down the stairs and into the night. The street had turned into utter chaos in the five minutes Taylor and Baldwin had been in Ashley’s room. It looked like a bomb had gone off—no bloody limbs or smoking ruins of cars, but people rushing aimlessly up and down the street. Many years earlier, Taylor had seen a man walk out of a burning building—eyes vacant, clothes on fire—and try to walk up the street, away from help. Shell shock. She could identify with that.

The riot of people surged up and down the street, neighbors mixed with patrol officers and emergency workers. Taylor didn’t see Lincoln right away, but caught the eye of Marcus Wade, gestured him over.

“What happened? We were upstairs at the second victim’s house and all hell broke loose.”

“There are more, Taylor. I’ve already got reports of another three, and dispatch has been receiving 911 calls for the last ten minutes.”

“More,” Taylor said, quite uncomprehending. “Three more bodies?”

Marcus swiped his hair out of his eyes, and Taylor saw the beads of sweat building on his forehead in the reflection of the nearest patrol car’s headlights. “Yes. All teenagers. All in this neighborhood.”

She saw Lincoln then, running past them. He turned into a house two doors up. The wailing of sirens was overwhelming, so noisy and loud Taylor thought her eardrums might burst.

Her cell phone trilled again. Headquarters. She took a deep breath, calmed herself, then answered. It was her new commander, Joan Huston.

“What’s happening out there, Jackson? I just got word from the 911 call center that they’ve been overloaded with emergencies.”

“Yes, ma’am. Multiple victims, multiple crime scenes. I have no sure count on the dead at this point, minimum of five casualties. We need a full tactical response on Estes Road in Green Hills. Send every available officer. I’ll need Dan Franklin and everyone the medical examiner can spare. I need to go manage the scene. I’ll call you back when I know more.”

“Biological threat? Do we need Hazmat? I can put the Emergency Operations Plan into action.”

“I don’t think that’s necessary. It looks like several homicides, but it’s going to take a while to sort through. We don’t even know how many scenes we have.” She stopped, looked at the street. The swelling mass of people seemed to grow with every minute. “The parents are coming home from work to find their children dead. I can’t tell you much more than that.” No sense sharing the information about the pentacles until she had a clear view of what was happening. That wasn’t the leak she needed for the local news—Satanists Rampaging Through Green Hills.

She turned away from the chaos, spoke quietly into the phone. “Whoever did this wanted our attention, and now they have it. We’ve already blocked off part of Estes Road. I’m going to push those roadblocks to Hobbs and Woodmont, move the perimeters back on all of these houses, start trying to sort this out. You’ll need to get out ahead of it. The media is going to have a field day.”

She heard finger snapping in the background—Huston getting some unwary soul’s attention. “Thank you, Lieutenant. Go to it.”

She closed the phone. Baldwin put a hand on her shoulder. Her team was already responding, people being gathered into manageable knots, patrol cars stationed at the corners of Estes and Woodmont, blocking access to the street. She could hear more sirens coming closer, the response almost immediate. She looked at Baldwin. His eyes were dark in the gloom.

“Satanists murdering people is something for urban legends, not Nashville,” she said.

“I agree. I find it hard to believe, but it is Halloween.”

“Meaning?”

“What better time to try and spook people with occult images?”

Taylor shook her head. “Someone wanted to send a message. This was a coordinated plan of attack. It takes a level of sophistication to pull off multiple murders. Let’s just see what we can find out.”

Three

Controlling the bedlam only took half an hour, which was incredible, considering. Taylor had set up a temporary headquarters on the street in front of the King house. She’d assigned each of her team a role managing a group of patrols on their specific tasks. She had officers interviewing every person who tried to enter the area, getting addresses and finding out if they had children. Those who did were passed into a secondary control—do you know where your children are? If the child couldn’t be reached by phone, the address was marked and a team sent out. A fourth group of patrol officers were responding to the 911 calls and reporting in their findings.

The body count was up to seven, in five separate houses. She could only pray that they’d discovered all the victims.

Four females and three males, all between the ages of fourteen and eighteen, were dead. It quickly became apparent that all of the victims attended Hillsboro High School—so far no students from any of the multiple private schools or the robust homeschool network in the area had been reported missing or deceased.

Two crime scenes held multiple victims—a couple involved in a sexual interlude, a condom still on the tip of the boy’s penis, and two girls hanging out for the afternoon, their physics books on the floor, the scene scattered with US Magazine, People and Cosmopolitan. Half studying, half gossiping.

The neighborhood wasn’t pleased with her identification system, but she couldn’t figure out a more efficient way to determine the breadth and depth of the situation. She had to show a calm face, a force, a presence. She needed to be composed and reasonable. She’d been trained to handle major emergencies, and she was exercising her training to the fullest. They had the situation under control.

A little voice in the back of her head kept screaming—you might be missing him, you might be letting the killer get away with more—but second-guessing herself wasn’t going to make things better. Once they’d determined that the primary event was over, they could start putting the pieces together.

The first victim found, Jerrold King, had been dead for at least a couple of hours. Taylor was working on the premise that the murders had taken place sometime between 12:30 p.m. and 3:00 p.m. School had let out at noon, the first body was found at 3:00 p.m. Assuming the victims had attended the half day of school this morning, she had an initial framework to follow.

She shuddered, thinking about the methodical staging, and wished she could fast-forward a day so she had an idea of what killed them. Drugs of some kind—the cyanosis and pinpoint pupils pointed to an overdose—something they had all ingested or injected. She was having dark thoughts about mass suicides. But that couldn’t explain the pentacles, could it? Could seven teenagers all coordinate a mass suicide and carve pentacles into their flesh as they were dying?

No. These crimes were committed by an outside hand. One who’d struck quickly, mercilessly and efficiently.

Taylor saw McKenzie putting Letha King into a patrol car. It pulled away, the child’s blank stare fixed forward. McKenzie stood next to Taylor, watching her go.

“What’s up?” Taylor asked. “She give you anything?”

“She hasn’t said much of anything. I thought it best to hold on to her until her aunt comes to get her, out of the house, at least. She called a few minutes ago, she’s on her way.”

“Good. We’ll want to talk to her again, once things settle down.”

They walked back to the Kings’ house. Despite the crowd, the kitchen was strangely quiet.

Baldwin handed her a stack of photos. “Are you ready? Simari gave me her extra Polaroids so we can start recreating the scenes. Though I’ll be able to pull this from memory for a while.”

“No kidding. Have all the victims been identified?”

Lincoln nodded. “For the most part, yes. There’s going to be formal IDs done for a few of them tomorrow, once next of kin are notified. Two of the families are traveling.”

“We can’t release names to the media until we have all the notifications done. I think it would be best to wait, make all the names public at once.”

“We can try, but you know some of the names will leak. Nature of the beast.”

“I know. Do your best, okay? Run me through the scenes, give me some names to put with the faces. After Jerrold King and Ashley Norton, who was found next?”

She laid the pictures on the granite countertop. Lincoln shuffled them around until he had them in order.

“We have Jerrold, then Ashley Norton. The two doubles after that, Xander Norwood and Amanda Vanderwood, then Chelsea Mott and Rachel Welch. Then we go back to a single we just found, Brandon Scott.” He tapped the last photograph. The picture showed the rictus-gripped face of a young man who’d not seen enough sunrises. Beautiful features ruined by death. Taylor wondered what they looked like alive, then pushed that thought away. No sense in it—she’d be haunted by their death masks forever.

“Are you hearing of any links between the victims? Any enemies?”

“No. No one knows a damn thing.”

“Where was the first couple found?”

“At the Vanderwood girl’s house.”

“Then let’s go there.”

The trek didn’t take them long—the Vanderwoods’ house was only a quarter mile up Estes. It was less showy than the previous two homes, smaller, with whitewashed clapboard and a red front door. All the lights were on, and crime-scene techs darted in and out. A small group of neighbors watched silently from the lawn, sadness etched on their faces.

The stairs seemed endless, the now-familiar scent of jasmine clinging to the air in the hallway. Amanda’s room was the first at the top of the stairs. A death investigator took pictures, the shutter’s snap rang in Taylor’s ears. It was one of the most common sounds she heard at a crime scene, but it felt invasive and new tonight.

Xander Norwood was on the floor, on his back, naked. Amanda Vanderwood was also nude, her body faceup and partially on the bed, arms trailing onto the floor. Taylor noticed that Amanda’s forefinger was touching Xander’s palm. It looked like she’d managed to use the last of her strength to partially shift her body off the bed, and Xander had reached out to her, struggling to get their flesh together in the waning moments of their young lives. Love everlasting.

For the first time in many years of crime scenes, Taylor felt sick to her stomach.

Wouldn’t Baldwin’s caress be the last she’d ever want to feel? Wouldn’t his face be the last image she’d want to see, his lips the last to touch hers, his words to fill her ears? To die with the one you loved at hand, that was grace.

Taylor forced the romanticism away, became clinical and cool. Rigor was setting in. Their lips were tinged with blue, the bodies carved with the same pentacles as the others. Xander was partially wearing a condom, the wrapper was on the floor next to the night table. Were they in the act, getting ready to have sex or finishing when the killer struck? She supposed it didn’t matter, there were no defensive wounds, no real disturbance in the room. It was like they’d simply gone to sleep in permanently awkward positions, with a large, glowing star cut into their flesh.

Baldwin circled the bodies, then stepped to the girl’s messy desk.

“Have you photographed all of this?” he asked. The ’gator nodded. Baldwin poked through the girl’s gym bag, then moved to her purse. He withdrew a plastic bag from the inside pocket of the Coach hobo, four small pills riding in the bottom.

“Taylor,” he said.

“Yeah?”

“Look at this.”

The pills were blue, tiny as baby aspirin, with a heart stamped on one side.

“X,” Taylor said.

“Yep.” He handed them to the death investigator who was attending the body.

“Don’t lose these,” Baldwin admonished.

“Like that would happen,” the kid replied. He was new—Taylor didn’t recognize him. She felt like she’d seen him somewhere before, but couldn’t place him. Not surprising—with Metro’s influx of new people, there were plenty of faces she couldn’t put to names. His ID card was strung on a yellow-and-black lanyard around his neck, she saw his picture and the name B. Iles. He took the Baggie from Baldwin reverently, photographed it and labeled it into evidence.

“They were found like this?” Taylor asked the young man.

“Yes, ma’am. Nothing’s been moved. We’re waiting for the medical examiner to declare.”

“Can’t you do it?” She was surprised. Death investigators, fondly referred to as ’gators, had the power to run a scene without the presence of a medical examiner.

“I can, but word came down that each scene had to be cleared by one of the ME’s.”

“Who gave that word?”

“Commander Huston.”

Ah. Her new boss was by the book, too. Taylor had no problem with that, though she knew Sam would be frustrated as hell. They’d have to roust the entire staff of Forensic Medical, all six of the medical examiners, to handle this mess.

“That’s good enough for me. Anything else you saw that I should know about?”

“No, ma’am. I’ve documented everything, stills and video. Crime Scene’s been looking for the weapon, the knife that was used, but as far as I know, none have been found at any of the scenes. We’ve lifted fibers galore, trace, fingerprints. If the killer left anything of himself behind, we’ll find it.”

“Why do you say ‘himself’?” Taylor asked.

Iles blushed. “Well, I shouldn’t jump to conclusions, but we found a couple of black hairs that obviously didn’t belong to either of these two. One was lying right on top of the male decedent’s chest. It was short, I just assumed it was male.”

“That’s interesting. Does it have a tag?” They’d be able to get DNA off the hair if a follicle was attached.

“No. It was broken off.”

“Too bad. Keep looking, there might be more. If you see something that matches what he used to carve them up, let me know immediately. We need to make sure that every kid’s effects are accounted for, that their gym bags, backpacks and purses are all searched. Find their cell phones and planners, too. Okay? Pass that down the line to your other investigators for me, tell the crime-scene techs, too. And ask them to keep an eye out for more drugs.”

“I’ll take care of it right now.”

“Thank you. Hey, what’s your first name?”

“Barclay. Barclay Iles.”

“Okay, Barclay. I’m Taylor Jackson. This is Supervisory Special Agent John Baldwin.”

“I know,” he said, his voice tinged with the kind of awe that made her cringe. Ah, well. Better awe than derision.

“Get on it,” she said. The ’gator scooted from the room. Taylor heard him breathing deeply in the hall. This was bound to be rough on all of them, heck, half the investigative staff were fresh out of college themselves.

She stared into the room one more time, at the touching, the carving, the silent agony Xander and Amanda had experienced. She wished she could rewind their day and prevent this. It was a fruitless wish.

“What do you think happened here, Baldwin? Is there something I’m missing?”

He was stalking around the room carefully, taking everything in. She knew that look—he was there, but completely abstracted, thinking about the incidents that would have led to the murders.

“I’m just wondering about the timing.”

“Halloween?”

“No, the time of death. All of the victims died around the same time. If the killer was in every house…”

“We have to wait for Sam to determine time and cause of death, but I think you’re right. Too many dead for just one person—is that where you’re going?”

He looked at her with a smile of appreciation. “I am.”

“How many killers, do you think?”

“I don’t know.” He turned away from her, ran his gloved finger along the spine of a book. Taylor saw it was one of her favorites, Wuthering Heights, and felt a pang. Amanda Vanderwood would never read again.

She heard a commotion from downstairs, voices raised.

“Now what?” she asked, resisting the urge to pull her hair down and run her fingers through it to help her think. The gesture was so compulsive, so ingrained that she had to stick her hands in her pockets, the nitrile catching on the edge of her jeans. Baldwin leaned his head toward the open door, where the voices were growing louder.

“We better go find out what’s going on.”

“I know.” Taylor sighed. Please, God, not more bodies.

They made their way downstairs to see Lincoln arguing with an older couple. Taylor was surprised, she thought the Vanderwoods were out of town. When Lincoln made the introductions, she understood and immediately went on guard.

“Lieutenant, this is Laura and Aaron Norwood, Xander’s parents.”

Taylor took off her gloves and shook hands with them. The Norwoods were an older couple, the husband still dressed for work in a blue suit and light blue tie, his wife in a brown velour jogging suit that stretched tight across her ample chest. She’d been weeping and her eyes were swollen and red, but dry of tears at the moment.

“I’m so sorry for your loss,” Taylor said automatically, knowing the words were hardly a comfort.

Mr. Norwood nodded brusquely. “We came when we heard. We wanted to be close. We want to see our son. Who did this?”

“We’re trying to figure that out, sir. Can you excuse us for a moment?”

She stepped into the hallway with Lincoln and Baldwin, speaking to Lincoln in a low undertone.

“We need Father Victor and some more chaplains. Can you get him over here?” The department chaplain was required to be a part of notifications to family members, and Taylor was so used to having a member of the clergy along that she was uncomfortable speaking to the Norwoods without him.

Lincoln whispered, “He’s at another scene. We’ve asked for backup, and we’ll get it for tomorrow, but right now, we’re it. Just FYI, Norwood’s being awfully pushy. I had to restrain him when he first got here. He’s calm now, but I’m not sure how long that’s going to last.”

Taylor indulged at last, took her hair down, rubbed her fingers across her scalp, then put her hair back in its bun. It wasn’t like she could go back to the Norwoods and say, sorry, I can’t talk, my favorite priest isn’t here to shelter me from your distress.

Baldwin’s cell phone started to ring. He put up an apologetic hand, murmured, “I need to get this,” and disappeared outside.

Taylor watched him go. “Can’t blame him. I hate this part, too. All right. Let’s do this.”

She reentered the living room with Lincoln, met the pain in their eyes full on. They’d retreated into that helpless state, unbelieving, unresisting, the reality of their son’s death still trying to seep into their souls. She didn’t have much time—they’d either slip away entirely into a grief so profound nothing would rouse them, or fly off the handle, become belligerent and difficult. Better to keep them focused on the here and now, if at all possible.

“Mr. and Mrs. Norwood, can you tell me more about Xander and Amanda?”

Mr. Norwood shook his head, reiterated his request. “We want to see Xander. It’s only right. We deserve a chance to say goodbye to our son.”

Just in case they decided to ignore her, Taylor crossed her arms on her chest and leaned against the doorjamb, effectively blocking their access to the stairs.

“I’m sorry, but I can’t let you do that. We have to work on the scene, and I’ll be completely honest with you, it’s not pretty. You don’t want this vision of Xander as the last you’ll ever have. You’re going to have to trust me. I give you my word that I’ll take good care of him.”

Mr. Norwood stared into her eyes for a long moment. She took his gaze, unflinching. I will treat him with respect. I will see his killer punished. After a long minute, he dropped his eyes to the floor and nodded. She seized the opportunity to try again.

“It would be a big help if you could answer some questions for me. Can you talk about Xander for a few minutes? Tell me about him? About Amanda?”

Laura Norwood breathed out a ragged sigh, a small smile of remembrance playing on her lips.

“What do you want to know? They were inseparable. Been going together for two years, were probably going to be together forever. You know how there’s always that couple, the ones who met early and that was it? That’s Xander and Amanda. The big joke was they were going to change their name to Woods, since our last names are so similar. That’s what their friends called them, the Woods. Amanda’s nickname was Woodie before she met Xander, so her friend’s teased her, called her Woodie Woodpecker. Xander and Amanda loved it. She was on the cheerleading squad, and it was just announced that she’d be captain next year. My God, I can’t believe this is happening.” Her hands started to shake and her husband took them, held them hard between his palms.

“Now, Laura, that’s not the kind of thing the police want to know. They need to know about enemies, and last moves, what kind of drugs and alcohol they were into. They only want to know the bad things. I’ve seen it all on TV. Just the bad things….” He broke off with a sob.

Taylor put her hand on his arm, spoke gently.

“No, sir. We want to know it all. Everything you tell us is relevant. Everything matters, the good and the bad. The more information we can gather today, the quicker we can catch the person who hurt your son. But if he did have any enemies or problems, we need to know.”

As she said it, she realized she was going to have this conversation with seven families, and the thought nearly made her legs buckle. Who could do such a thing? Who could annihilate seven children? Focus, Taylor.

She looked around the room. “You know what, why don’t we sit down? We’ll be more comfortable. And you tell me anything that comes to mind about your son. It sounds like he had a lot of friends. Was that the case?”

They settled on opposite sides of a walnut coffee table, on facing barn-red twill couches, the perfect conversational grouping in the living room. The Vanderwoods obviously entertained—the whole house was set with various nooks and spots for small gatherings to linger.

Mrs. Norwood wiped her eyes with a ragged tissue. “Of course. Xander was very popular. Captain of the wrestling team, letterman, honor society. Smart, that was our boy. He was accepted early to Vanderbilt, that way he could stay at home his first year until Amanda graduated and joined him. Amanda is…oh, God, was, such a lovely girl. We were proud to have her as a part of our family. Even Xander’s sister seemed to like Amanda, and she’s not usually fond of her big brother’s friends.” As she spoke, her eyes started to shine, the recollection pulling her from her misery. Just as quickly, she collapsed back into tears. Mr. Norwood tried to take over, but his voice was shaking, too.

“Xander was a good boy. Reckless, sometimes, like any boy his age. Had a slew of speeding tickets. He was probably going to lose his license if he didn’t buckle down and go through that class you have to take. He loved to drive.”

“Does he have his own car?”

“Yes, a Volvo. We took one look at his driving skills and got him the safest car we could find. Amanda had a Jeep, and I was always worried about him driving it and tipping over.”

The Norwoods shared a private laugh. Taylor was struck by their composure. It was rare for parents to pull themselves together so quickly. The shell had tightened; the cool, calm, rational people were poking through. It was strange—some parents became hysterical and unable to talk, some would sit you down and relay every detail. She never knew what to expect, was happy the Norwoods fell into the latter category. She needed this information, needed to build a victimology on their son.

“Is that his Volvo parked in the driveway?”

“Yes, it is.”

She nodded at Lincoln, silently indicating that he needed to get Crime Scene on the car. He nodded back. Oh, it was good to have her team together again.

Taylor tried to figure out how to put the next question delicately. “Was it…typical for Xander and Amanda to have private time alone?”

Mrs. Norwood blew her nose, then said, “Are you asking if we knew they were having sex, Lieutenant?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She sighed heavily. “Surely you remember what it was like being a teenager in love. We discouraged them, of course, but they were hell-bent. We talked to Xander extensively—he promised that they were being careful. I believe Amanda was taking birth control pills, but you’ll have to ask her mother about that. We’ve called her parents, but they’re overseas. It’s going to take them a day to get back home. Just terrible for them. At least we’re here, can be with Xander’s sister through this.”

“Where is your daughter?”

“Susan? She’s at home with our housekeeper. Aaron, we really should start getting back there for her.” They started the small shiftings that told Taylor their interview was at an end.

“Before you go, can you tell me anything else about Amanda?”

“Oh, Mandy was…sunny. Beautiful. Smart. She was in honor society too, debate, student council, you name it. Her parents are from a very old Nashville family who wanted her to be as proletariat as possible. They were pushing her toward a life in public service. They could have sent her anywhere, but they both went to public school and wanted her to, as well. That’s how many of us feel around here. Really, she and Xander were the perfect couple.”

A perfect couple who’d been targeted by a madman. There was something wicked this way, Taylor was sure of it. No child is perfect, and if Taylor’s background could be any sort of guide, it was the ones who seemed rosy on the surface that hid the biggest secrets.