Picasso hasn’t killed out of order. Yet. He has dutifully followed Klosenova’s numbered prints. It is possible he has killed a woman we haven’t found yet, a woman who matches image number six. Then he will have moved on to the final photograph.
My breath grows quick and shallow. Suddenly light-headed, I sit down hard on the corner of the hotel bed until my world rights itself.
Rowan.
It’s 4:30 p.m. Just enough time.
*
The original Stonehenge in England remains a mystery to most anthropologists, but many agree that the site had been used for different types of rituals. Remnants of animal bone indicate lavish feasts from gatherings of celebration while the different orientations of the stones to the sun signal some sort of calendar. The shape of Stonehenge is significant, the circular plan that gathers energies and blessings for all those who enter. Just like the original, Marci used her Stonehenge within the limestone quarry for her own forms of celebration. It even held her in the final ritual of life: death.
I don’t know how many years Marci had escaped into the accepting, cool cavern of Stonehenge. When did she discover the distant burrow in the back edge of the cave? How long had she been squirreling herself away from the adults in her world? The hushed, velvety stones held all her secrets, her dreams, and once I came along, her desires. Inside that earthly crevice, we united—a bond built on acceptance of one another even when it seemed like everyone in our lives based their love for us on the changes we first needed to make.
At the entrance of the quarry, the remnants of the day fade fast beyond the wooded terrain. Hunched against the stab of cold, it is the anxiety to find Rowan that warms me at my very core. A quick pang of guilt shoots through my chest at the thought of Davis, who most likely is still waiting with Alison for me to return from my hotel room. Davis would have insisted on an approved, full-team search of the quarry. I need to go in quiet, and I need to go in alone. If Rowan isn’t already dead, the full team complete with tracking dogs would only spook Picasso, endanger her life. I only have the heavy-duty flashlight from my console, my service weapon with a full round, two extra rounds tucked inside a coat pocket, my cell phone, and the small pen knife on my key chain.
Plunging into the mouth of the forest, my heavy boots cave through the top layer of ice and sink into the deep snow. This motion of sinking and pulling a boot out only to do so all over again is agonizingly slow. Panic clenches my chest. I don’t have time for this! I try to run and my feet move much too quickly, throwing my balance into confusion. When a forked limb suddenly appears centimeters from my forehead, I can’t stop. The hard smack from the jutting branch wallops me flat. Heart inside my throat, I finally hear the voice I’ve been waiting for: Slow down. Listen.
With the wind knocked out of me, I obey. I lie down in the snow to gather my bearings, my scattered breath. Gentle snowflakes flutter down on me, catching against the ridges of my eyelashes. Somewhere not far away, a woodpecker battles against a tree trunk and black crows caw. Inside that hushed quiet of the trees, in the impending darkness, something within me takes over. Memory fuses with my body—I’m sixteen again. My feet know the trail to Stonehenge. I’ve been here a thousand times in my dreams since Marci’s murder. Standing once again, I shut off my mind and let my body memory take over.
The rocky ridge that overlooks the deep bowl of the Midwestern mini-canyon is at least a half mile away. From there, Stonehenge is roughly another quarter mile. Each step of my foot has been here before, I remind myself; each fall of my breath has filled this air. Dark or not, freezing or not, this space will accept me once again. I revert back in time until I’m spinning inside that miniscule but tenacious rut between wake and sleep. When I was sixteen and came to visit Marci in Stonehenge, I used to clock myself to see how fast I could race from the entrance to her.
My record comes back to me. “Six minutes, three seconds,” I say out loud. “Beat it.”
*
Marci! I call out and listen for my voice to echo back. Marci! Only the familiar sound of the woodpecker responds. I’m here, it says. I’ve always been here.
Is it the nature of being young or just first love that is so palpable, vibrant, and electric your body can vibrate while sitting still and damn near take off with just the sound of your lover’s name? Marci. Marci.
Sometimes when I ran inside the quarry, I thought of Chaz. I imagined him sneaking off to meet with a lover. I already knew who—the boy from the basketball team with lanky limbs and a chiseled chin spotted with a baby beard. I was always curious as to how Chaz got away from his father’s suspicious eye. Did he slip out through the bedroom window in the middle of the night? Or did he lie about how many practices the team really held? Did he and his lover have their own hidden place? These were the types of secrets even Chaz and I never told one another.
Marci! I say it over and over and over until I burst through the thicket of trees beside the collection of boulders near Stonehenge. The coolness of earth mixed with the metallic smell of blood slaps me in the face. Or is it a memory? I drop to my bony knees.
I was so sure I’d find Rowan. Kneeling at the site of Marci’s death, I bury my face in my hands to hide the tears that squeeze from my eyes. Stonehenge’s silent dankness nearly chokes me. My chest thumps hard with the run and I smack my fists against the frozen limestone floor. The symmetry of Picasso returning to the location of his first kill only makes sense. I’d convinced myself that Rowan would be here waiting for me, very much alive, sketching away in her book. Silly, Luce, she’d say. I’m drawing! And then we’d laugh together, and head out along the trail for a lovely winter stroll back to my car to live happily ever after.
If only.
Night has fallen. I step outside the cave. The sky is painfully clear, the moon a sharp crevice amongst the spray of bright stars. The clarity feels frozen with the subzero temperature. It feels like if I could reach up high enough, I could grab hold of a ball of ice instead of a burning star. Leaning against the bumpy limestone wall, my eyes slowly adjust to the darkness. Snippets of what I imagine happened after I left Marci’s body that day mix with my present knowledge of how a crime scene is processed. I can hear the rescue workers crashing through the woods, their medical equipment boxes bouncing against their knees, a much younger Ainsley as he kneels over Marci’s body looking for signs of evidence, the painstaking search of the rocky terrain for any sort of clue. Marci hadn’t been dead long when I found her—at most thirty minutes. But someone was still there. Waiting. Watching. Biding his time until I made a move.
Blood. I remember there was so much blood on my hands from the blow to the back of Marci’s head. Wringing my hands now, I can still feel the sticky warmth of her blood, the way it covered my skin, the way it marked me with its cruelty. First kills are usually messy, I know this now; rarely does the murder go down the way the killer fantasized it would. Marci’s was no different. I interrupted his sick game. His rage at my interference must have been nothing short of fierce.
I edge closer to the lip of the ravine. Thirty feet or so below, the deep water that flows in the warmer months is iced over, solid in spots. Rowan, where are you? Turning to make my way back along the trails to my truck, I resolve to bring the entire team into the quarry for a search. That’s when I see it from the corner of my eye. Only a glint at first. Out past the bottom of the ravine, on the opposite side of the water. A flash. It’s the head of a torchlight moving away and following the frozen waterline.
There is no quick way down to the base of the ravine without alerting Picasso. If I jump from the stony ledge, I’ll slam into the limestone of the ravine walls and land against the rocky bed of frozen water that would at the very least break my legs. Instead, I follow the glow of light in search of a quicker way into the ravine. Running low to the ground with my knees bent, I’m in tracker mode, my senses sharply honed inside the dark. I can’t risk that Picasso will see the flash of my light the same way I’ve seen his.
After I call Ainsley for backup, I turn off the cell, afraid a ring or ding or buzz, or the glow of the screen, might give away my location. Through our patchy connection, Ainsley reamed me for sneaking out solo. “Davis is searching everywhere for you.” he growled into the phone and added that if he found me first, he’d be the one to kill me. I can’t wait, but at least the team is on the way. I know these woods, but so does Picasso. He’s proven that with the careful plots of each grisly installment of his own Crossed series.
The thin ledge of a path narrows and my footing threatens to toss me over the edge into the ravine a few times. The patches of icy snow mix with an uneven stone route that catches me off guard and slows me down. Picasso’s glowing light dims. I can’t let that distance get any wider.
A trail toward a clearing suddenly presents itself and I abandon the path along the ledge of the ravine. My plan? To make up lost time on a well-worn jogging course that leads to the bottom. I’ve lost sight of the light below, but I know his pace which will allow me to cut him off at the far end of the quarry. With my flashlight on the lowest setting and tucked under my sweater, the dimmed gray just enough light to see a few steps in front of me, I full-on sprint now, no longer unsteady on my feet, tearing through the top icy layer of snow with each footfall. My legs and breath fall into a steady rhythm as the path leads me down to Picasso.
I explode onto the expanse of the quarry’s Staircase. In spring, rivulets of water run down the falling, layered limestone. The solid layer of ice on top of the limestone threatens to toss me down. But the toe of my boot catches on the edge of something solid—I’ve misjudged the space between steps and trip. I stumble to gain my balance, but it’s no use. I’m moving too fast to stop. Tumbling forward, I shoulder roll along the gnarled bedrock and stumps, cursing every smack of my body along the way.
I land with a hard thud of my back against the base of an enormous elm, listening and feeling for injuries to my body. It’s only after I catch my breath and pull myself up that I recognize a soft whimper in the dark.
“Rowan?” The flashlight has gotten tangled within the folds of my shirt and coat. Digging out the torch, I sweep the light across the landscape. “Rowan, is that you?”
“Help me!” Rowan’s voice trembles from somewhere above me.
With the eerie, wide sweep of my light, I find Rowan at the top of the staircase. I scramble up the limestone layers to get to her, slipping on the ice. It’s the sight of Rowan that knocks the breath, and damn near the strength, out of me.
Rowan lies bound to the earth, naked, on her back with her arms sprawled out to the sides and her legs together—Picasso’s makeshift cross of a body. White plastic binding strips bind Rowan’s wrists to enormous roots of an oak tree. Her ankles are zip-tied together and he’s placed a heavy rock on top of her shins to hold her legs down. Rowan’s skin already has a bluish hue, her nipples a deep violet. Her entire body quakes with a violent shivering that knocks me into action. She’s going into shock. Her whimpers beg me to help her.
Crawling to Rowan’s side, I search my pockets for anything sharp to cut the zip-ties. Truck keys! The utility knife on the keychain. I scan the tree line for any sign of movement while I saw back and forth through the thick plastic ties at her wrists. “Are you hurt?”
“My ankle. I can’t feel my feet or hands.” A quivering sob chokes up inside her. “He hunted me.”
“Hunted?”
“He told me he’d kill me if he caught me. He carried me here and tied me up.”
“Does he have a gun? A knife?”
“A huge gun.”
Rowan knows next to nothing about guns. Her notion of a huge gun could be a shotgun or some sort of rifle. Frustration burns in me until the small knife from the keychain finally breaks through the tie at her left wrist. Rowan sits up quickly, wringing her near-frozen fingers around the bruised skin.
“How did you get out here?” I move down to her legs and lift the enormous stone from her legs. Rowan’s right about her ankle. The left is about twice the size of the other with no signs of the swelling receding.
“A young woman stopped me in the hotel lobby after you dropped me off. An art student who saw my work and wanted to have coffee before I left town. And…I don’t know. I can’t remember. Somehow I ended up with the man in these woods.”
Kaitlin. I saw away at the ankle binding. Rowan’s missing memory suggests Kaitlin roofied her.
“Ow.” Rowan’s hands shoot down to cover her swollen ankle.
“I’m sorry.” I unzip my coat and slide out of it for Rowan. If I can’t move her, she’ll freeze. It’s quite possible that frostbite has already set in to her fingers and toes. Helping her into the coat, I zip it all the way to her chin.
“They’re working together. What are we gonna do?” Rowan cries, pulling her hands up inside the sleeves of the coat.
“What does he look like?”
“He’s completely covered in black, even one of those face masks that robbers use. I couldn’t see any part of him.”
I try again with the knife to break the remaining zip tie, but the jarring is too much for a shattered ankle. Thank God I was smart enough to put on a few layers of clothing this morning. Kneeling beside Rowan, I pull off my sweater and wind it around her thighs and knees. The thick fabric hardly covers the freezing pale skin of her legs.
“What about you?” She points to my thin long-sleeved T-shirt.
“I got my trusty hat.” I pat the bomber on my head. “I’ll be okay.”
Powering my cell phone on, I call for help. “They’re here, Davis. Rowan’s at the top of the Staircase,” I tell him. “Bring EMS. She’s got a broken ankle.” The connection is so spotty the phone loses reception before I can tell him Picasso is armed and working with Kaitlin.
“Keep calling Davis.” I leave the phone and my keychain with the pocket knife for her. “Use the light of the phone to signal them when they get close, instead of your voice. Keep working at the binding.”
I lean forward and give her a quick kiss on the cheek. “Don’t hesitate to use this knife. Go for the eyes. And the balls.”
Her hand grips mine. “Stay with me.”
“I have to end this thing.” I squeeze her cold hand and then pull away.
“Promise me. Please.” Rowan begins to tremble again.
I look down at her. “You have my word. I’ll come back for you.”
White clouds of my exhalations trail behind me in the frigid night air. The tips of my eyelashes and the tiny hairs inside my nose have frozen, and the skin around my eyes burns with the icy blast. My mind churns possible scenarios as my heartbeat rushes inside my ears. I understand why he has bound Rowan alive. She is waiting her turn. She is meant to be the seventh victim and Picasso can’t bring himself to do the kills out of order. Somewhere out here in the quarry, victim six has most likely been killed and Rowan is next. In order to get the photographs to match Klosenova’s, he’ll have to use special lenses for his camera. The flashes will have to be timed just right. All of the technical difficulties with night photography will slow Picasso down and grant our team some extra time.
The bottom of the ravine is maybe fifteen feet below me now. The trail could possibly have been the longest way down. But, I remind myself, it led me to Rowan. I weave out of the heavy forest toward the ledge. I have to go back to the original path and move down that way. There is no more time to waste. The bed of the ravine stretches quite a few miles and it eventually meets up with the Mad River. There are all sorts of theories of the ravine’s origins, but the most popular is that the semi-canyon of the ravine has been whittled away over the years from the steady water flow from the large Mad River. I stand a few seconds at the limestone edge. My eyes have adjusted somewhat to the darkness and I scan the landscape for any sign of light or movement. Crows caw-caw from somewhere nearby and then fall back into the silence.
I see it again—the flash of light, a shimmer much closer than I’ve anticipated, down to my lef
t. I spin on the balls of my feet to head that direction when the heel of my left boot slides on a patch of ice. My feet scramble through snow to take hold of something solid. The icy edge gives way. I tumble and bounce against the jagged edges of limestone, rolling over winter-hardened earth. I land hard and flat on my back against the snowy ice along the edges of the frozen water, exactly where I’ve been trying to get all along. The absurdity of it almost makes me laugh until the back of my head erupts in maddening pain. I’ve smacked it hard against a jutting stone and the world suddenly goes black.
Chapter Twenty-five
Everything blurs white. I manage to prop up on a shaky elbow, but it slips out from under me on the ice. A woman moans not far from me along the water’s edge.
“Whoa, Hansen.” Bear-sized hands take hold of my shoulders. “You took quite a fall.”
Rubbing my eyes, I squint to make sense of the shape looming above me. “Ainsley.” Thank God—someone to help. “Where’s the team?” My fingers trace the growing egg of a knot on the back of my head. No blood, but swelling can be just as dangerous.
“Davis called for search and recovery. I got to thinking on my way over here about an old dirt access road on this side.” He thumbs back. “It’s used as a launch and parking area.” He points up the bank. “Look who I found down here.” Kaitlin lies curled on her side against the frozen earth, completely naked.
Ainsley sweeps his flashlight over the hillside and then around Kaitlin. “She’s bound. He’s drugged her, so she’s groggy and weak. Best to leave her until we catch Picasso.” He looks down at me. “We have to get off this ice and under cover.” He reaches down for my hand and nods toward the bank. “Let me help.”
The knock to my head has left me light-headed; everything looks larger and slower than it really is. My hypersensitive ears hear every rustle of movement. Kaitlin kicks out her skinny legs every few seconds, her arms pulled back and tucked under her head. Shaking my head, I try to clear my thinking. Kaitlin. Victim number six. She’s got the dark hair, albeit dyed, and she’s childlike in stature. But if Kaitlin’s meant to mimic number six, where is Picasso and why hasn’t he already killed her?
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