“Love you, too. Luck.”
She clicked over. “Hey, Linc. What’s up?”
“We have the entire neighborhood frozen, and we’ve got some very upset parents. They’ve got the pitchforks and stakes out.”
“That’s to be understood. But we need those scenes stationary for now. Tell them we’ll release the bodies and get them back in their homes as soon as we can.”
She hoped she was telling the truth.
Quantico
Garrett had sent a car for him. Baldwin climbed into the backseat and gave the yawning driver his address. He had a small apartment near the grounds of Quantico that he used when he was in town working.
He was tired, but getting to sleep was going to be near to impossible. He needed to be sharp and alert in the morning. Artificial means, then. He checked his watch and calculated, decided against half an Ambien, settled on a Benadryl. It would knock him out for at least six hours. That would have to be good enough. He dry-swallowed the capsule and stared out into the dark of the night.
It was always darkest just before the dawn. He could only hope that the light of day would bring good news.
Eight
Nashville
9:00 p.m.
The rain was letting up, the evening now bittered into teeth-chattering cold. Taylor ran the gauntlet down Estes, driving through a phalanx of Metro blue-and-whites and medical examiner’s vans. A patrol officer waved her through and she parked the Lumina in front of the Kings’ driveway.
Dan Franklin, the department’s spokesman, met her car. Dan was a big guy, light brown hair and blue eyes with a relatively nondescript, almost homely face, but six foot two and an easy two-thirty. He spent a lot of time in the gym, and the hard work showed. Physically, he was threatening at best, emotionally, he was the rock the department depended on. He was their first line of defense against the media. It was a precarious position to maintain—Metro needed the media and the media needed Metro, but sometimes they didn’t like to play nice. Franklin assured everyone on both sides that the road to the news would be as smooth as could be.
He opened her door and she climbed out. “What’s up?”
“I need to talk to you.”
Taylor stopped. “Shoot.”
“I think it would be a good idea to have you give the presser.” He tapped his hand on the hood of her car as he spoke, and the emphasis felt contrived. She was immediately suspicious.
“Oh, come on. The press conference is your job.”
“I know it is, and I’ll be up there with you.” He quit tapping, leaned against the car. He crossed his bulky arms and said, “We’ve been friends for a long time, right?”
“Going on ten years.”
“You trust me, right?”
“Yes.”
“Then do the presser. I promise it’s the right thing to do.”
“But—”
He cut her off. “Taylor, the city of Nashville wants to see you lead again. You’ve been fodder for the press for a couple of months now, and practically the moment you’re reinstated, a huge string of murders happens on your watch. They know about Fitz going missing, they know about the Snow White Killer’s apprentice. You need to regain their confidence. You need to let them know that you’re in control, that the old Taylor Jackson is back in business. Your close rate is still head and shoulders above any cop in the city—hell, most of the country. This is the perfect opportunity for you to get them back in your court.” He took a breath, then quickly said, “And we can put a camera behind you, film forward, see what the crowd shows us.”
“Ah, so that’s the plan. Bribery by B-roll. You’re just appealing to my need to find the creeps who did this.” But she smiled, and he smiled back.
“I honestly think it will do you some good. Quell the scuttlebutt.”
She blew out a breath and thought for a few minutes. Dan was right, she did need to get the city’s confidence back. Badges and honors were all well and good, but in the long run, the only thing that mattered was the close. Though the people of Nashville were a forgiving bunch, the escapades over the past year had tarnished her spotless reputation, and in turn the reputation of Metro. They needed to know that she was back, one hundred percent back, solid and able to solve this case. Because eight teenagers in one night was going to rock Nashville unlike any case it had previously faced.
Too bad Baldwin had to leave town. She’d worked with his team on other cases and knew that, despite their differences in the past, the chief of police liked having the FBI involved in major crimes. He felt it engendered confidence from the masses. No matter what, when people heard those magic letters, F-B-I, they felt safer. Well, most people.
She heard her mother’s voice in her head. Beggars can’t be choosers. No kidding, Mother.
She ran it through her head for a minute. They could use the extra footage of the scene. She had a feeling that their killer was watching, reveling.
“Okay, I’ll do it. When?”
“We’re live in fifteen minutes.”
She put her hand on his arm to stop him. “Hey, Dan? Thanks.”
He just nodded and left her.
She scooted inside and found Lincoln making notes on his netbook.
“Hey,” she said.
“Hey back,” Lincoln replied. “Just talked to McKenzie. He’s got the party frozen. Says there’s some parents frothing at the mouth to get their kids home under their own roofs. When you’re done here he’s ready for you to go over there and chat with the kids.”
“You have the video covered?”
“Yes. I’m going to head back to the CJC, upload everything we have and start searching for squirrels.”
“Good. Dan wants me to do the presser, so wait for that footage. Did you two cook this little plan up?”
“Nope. It was his idea. But he did ask if you’d shoot him on the spot if he suggested it. I told him you weren’t quite that trigger-happy.”
She narrowed her eyes at him, and he gave her a small smile.
“I need to get prepped. Do we have next-of-kin notifications on all the victims?”
“All but one. Here’s your information.” Lincoln handed her a sheaf of papers. It was hard to believe that only four hours had passed since they’d arrived at the first scene. It felt like days.
“Got pics from the rest of the scenes?”
He handed her some Polaroids and his notebook, where he’d accurately sketched the layout of each tableau.
“This is perfect, thanks. Oh, a little something to tuck into the back of your mind—the crime scene I just came from, Brandon Scott? You’ll see the level of violence was ten times the rest of the victims. I think he may have been the target, and the rest of the victims were just to cover the killer’s tracks. You need to get as much information on this kid as humanly possible, and fast. He may be the best link we have to our killer.”
“Really? Then maybe the suspect is still close by.”
“I get that feeling, don’t you? This is all so damn…showy.”
“Yes, it is. And coordinated. Not a single person we’ve interviewed saw anything out of the ordinary. No bogeymen creeping in the backyards, nothing. The killer fits into the neighborhood.”
Taylor flipped the page on Lincoln’s notes. He was so thorough, she felt like she’d just relived the last few hours.
“On our suspect? I’m going to hazard a guess that we’re looking for a Caucasian male between fifteen and twenty-five.”
“Fifteen…you think a kid could be responsible for this level of destruction?”
“Anything’s possible. The victimology is the first clue—you know that. But I wouldn’t recommend saying that out loud. I think we need to roust some of the school administrators and see if anyone has been making threats first.”
“I’ll keep all options on the table.”
“Okay, then.” She took Lincoln’s notes and stepped into the Kings’ kitchen to gather her thoughts. Her mind was abuzz with possibilities.
Was Brandon Scott the intended victim and the rest of the murders collateral damage? That was a horrid thought, but something that she certainly needed to be aware of. It was entirely possible that this wasn’t the work of an adult. She knew they had a monster on their hands, but if that monster turned out to be a kid himself, they had bigger problems.
Nine
Nashville
10:00 p.m.
Taylor stood in front of the whirring cameras, Dan Franklin next to her. She was speaking into forced light, and couldn’t see much, just the outlines of bodies, a journalistic nightmare of the living dead. She’d been hoping that she’d be able to look into the crowd, recognize the killer and end this charade, but that wasn’t going to happen.
She held up a hand to silence them and began.
“I’m sorry to see you under these circumstances. Tonight we’ve been struck by a tragedy, the magnitude of which we’re only just beginning to understand. We’ve lost seven of our children. An eighth is fighting for her life at Vanderbilt Children’s Hospital. We have the very best men and women at Metro, and they are working around the clock to assure two things—one, that we catch the suspect who committed these crimes, and two, that you and your children are safe.
“I won’t be releasing the names of the victims at this moment because not all next of kin have been notified. We’re doing all we can to make that happen, and as soon as we do Dan Franklin will have the list for you. I’d anticipate that happening overnight. I can confirm that three males and five females were targeted in this attack.
“We are confident we will be able to bring this suspect to justice very soon. We ask that anyone who has information about these crimes come forward. A tip line is available at 888-555-9880 and will be manned twenty-four hours a day. You can remain anonymous if you wish. We do ask that you call the tip line instead of Crime Stoppers so we can keep all information relevant to these cases in one place.”
She steeled herself, then said, “I’ll take questions now.”
There was a cacophony of voices. She picked one she recognized, Cindy Carter from FOX, and focused on it. Cindy asked, “Are there any leads?”
The crowd quieted down.
“The question was, do we have any leads. Rest assured that we are doing everything possible to capture the suspect, and are working these crimes as a single event. We believe the same person is responsible for all of the murders this afternoon. But, as I’m sure you’re aware, I’m not in a position to discuss anything that relates to the ongoing investigation.”
There were groans, then the typical repositioning of questions, all of which Taylor was forced to deflect. That was how the game was played—feed a little bit of information to the reporters, let them ask their questions with the knowledge that they wouldn’t be getting an answer on the air. Off camera, each would sidle up to Taylor, or Dan, or any of the other officers and get the inside scoop. Most of Nashville’s reporters had a great tradition of being told the truth, because the police trusted that they wouldn’t put that truth directly onto the air and ruin their cases.
“If you’ll excuse me, I need to get back to work. I’m going to turn this over to Dan Franklin now. He’ll do his level best to answer as many of your questions as he can. Thank you for your time, and for being patient with us.” She paused for a moment, looked right into the cameras. “You have my word. We are doing everything in our power to solve these heinous crimes.”
She stepped away from the makeshift podium, and Dan caught her eye, nodded imperceptibly. He took her place, faced the group and was immediately barraged with questions. She avoided smirking and backed away until she was out of camera range. Lincoln came up beside her.
“I was watching the crowd. I can’t tell who’s a part of the neighborhood and who isn’t. Feels like half of Nashville is out here watching the show. We’ve got a long-ass night ahead of us.”
“You’re telling me. Okay, I’m heading to the party. You start on these tapes. Lincoln? Find me something.”
“Will do.”
“Okay. I’m outta here.”
Taylor opened her cell and called Marcus. He answered with a morose, “Hey.”
“Hey yourself. Any word on the vic?”
“She’s in a coma. They’ve loaded her full of Narcan. They think it was some kind of drug overdose. But they don’t know if she’s going to make it—you know how quickly Narcan works. She didn’t come to, just slipped into the coma.”
“A drug overdose makes sense. That’s what Sam thought, too. The presentation screams drugs—I instructed the ’gators and crime-scene techs to look for anything that might be the culprit. I need you to join us at this address—8900 Sneed Terrace. It’s the home of Theo Howell, best friend of victim number three, Xander Norwood. He’s supposed to be having a Halloween party. I sent McKenzie over there a while ago to get everyone corralled, and apparently some of the kids’ parents have shown up there, as well. I’m going to need your help taking all of the statements. I’m sure word has spread, and a few kids may have scattered by now, but McKenzie’s got at least thirty people waiting around.
“The victims are being described as the perfect kids, and I want to find out what the real story is. Sam’s gone to Gass Street, and Lincoln’s doing the video footage. So that leaves us. You up for it?” She wanted to get him away from Brittany Carson, away from the guilt, get him preoccupied with something else. Interviewing thirty teenagers should do the trick.
“Yeah, I’ll be there. Give me fifteen. Want me to wrangle up a couple of lattes? I’m across the street from Starbucks.”
Her stomach growled in a Pavlovian response. “That would be heavenly. I’ll see you there.”
“Will do, Taylor.”
“Thanks, Marcus. Hang in there, okay? I know you’ve had a bitch of an afternoon.”
“I’ll be okay.”
“Good man. See you in a few.”
Ten
Nashville
11:45 p.m.
Raven lay on his narrow bed, watching Fane apply her makeup. Next to feeling his body inside hers, her warmth enveloping him, it was possibly the most sensual experience they shared.
She was an expert, her hand sure. First the layer of foundation, two shades lighter than her skin, which gave her a pearly glow. Then a dusting of powder, also two shades lighter, to set the makeup. She used a sponge to feather the color into her neck so there was no line of demarcation. She put just a hint of blush on her cheeks, from the apples right into her hairline, then started on her eyes.
Raven had filmed her doing her makeup once. He overlaid it with music, a pulsing track from The Crüxshadows called—appropriately enough—“Immortal.” He’d known it was their song the first time he heard it, the lyrics crying out to him, “With hearts immortal, we stand before our lives.” It was perfect for the video—fast, wicked hot and theirs.
He’d sped the tape up to five times speed and posted it to YouTube as a Goth makeup tutorial. It had garnered more than five hundred thousand views so far. It gave him an unbelievable rush to think about all those baby bats out there using his woman as a guide.
They’d have even more to admire him for now.
Raven sat up and put his chin in his hand, watched Fane create the mystical black cloud that made the green of her eyes look like fifteen-carat emeralds. The long swoops of black liquid eyeliner, the deep black M-A-C eye shadow, more liner, five coats of mascara, then the intricate swirls dripping off the edges of her eyes like she was a bedouin princess decorated for her wedding night. A dark princess. The ruler of his heart.
She finished, screwed the top on her liner, then outlined her lips with a burgundy pencil. She dug into her makeup tray and pulled out a deep, deep cherry-black lipstick. He appreciated the symbolism. Fane sometimes had difficulty talking to others, and the black lipstick reminded her that she was the one with the power. He knew she’d imbued it with strength—they’d done the spell together.
She bent over and ratted h
er hair so it stood out from her head, allowing it to fall in glorious waves nearly to her ass, then finished with a liberal dose of Aqua Net.
When she flipped up and smiled at him, he could barely contain himself. His love. His perfect, perfect love.
“Your turn,” she said, shrugging into her corset. The stays made her waist about the span of his hand.
Raven tried to distract himself from his woman’s faultless form and glossed his face with makeup, disappearing behind the foundation. He never felt so strong as when he was in full Goth mode. He had to temper it down at school a bit—the administration had strict rules about boys wearing makeup. Capitalist bastards. They had no idea how strong he was.
But tonight, in celebration, they were headed to a club. They would feed on the energy of the crowd, be themselves. There was nothing like a good night of clubbing. Subversion had a five-dollar cover in honor of Samhain, and there was a guest DJ in from Los Angeles, a guy called The Baron. Raven had heard some amazing things about his playlist—he always seemed to have the newest bands at his disposal. He supposed that was the whole Hollywood thing—the Nashville Goth scene rocked, but it was still Nashville. Full-on industrial wasteland. He’d been to a couple of clubs in Washington, D.C., that were out of this world. But beggars couldn’t be choosers—traditional Goth was all Nashville could offer tonight. One day soon he and Fane would head out to Los Angeles, would ride the wave of the Goth scene, rising to the top, glorified in their power. Their art would be watched by millions, and they would never be parted. That day was coming. He’d already purchased their tickets—they’d be gone on Monday. Just a few things left to accomplish before then.
In the meantime, they had to make do with what they had. First Subversion, then they’d hit Salvation to cap off the night and meet up with Thorn and Ember. Ember was going to have to sneak out tonight, especially after—
“Raven, love, you need to get moving. I want to get downtown.”
Fane had her hands on her hips, stamping her foot in frustration. The platform industrial boots with buckles up to her knee made her six-foot-four and ethereally spectacular. He smiled at her in the mirror, baring his fangs, running his tongue lovingly along the sharp edges. They’d cost him a pretty penny, but they were so worth it. Fane loved hers just as much—it made biting one another so much easier. Better teeth than the athamé any day. It was so much more real.
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