The drive was cluttered with police cars. A small crowd had formed on the street, a row of neighbors who were straining to see the show. Taylor turned from the house and watched them watching her.
She saw Baldwin’s car make its way into the driveway, and was thankful he was here.
He was forced to park and walk up the long drive. His shoulders were slumped; he was the bearer of bad news, she could tell. She’d learned all his signs now.
When he reached her, he grabbed her and held her tight. The warmth was welcome, but Taylor didn’t feel anything, not just yet. She’d just taken her second life in as many days, and she wouldn’t turn back on for a while yet.
“I have some bad news.”
She nodded, looked deep into his green eyes.
“Is it Win?”
He looked startled for a moment, then shook his head.
“It’s about Charlotte. I spent some time with Jane Macias, then had to do some checking. Charlotte was his daughter. She was Snow White’s daughter.”
“What?” she said.
“I know. I have an entire deposition from Jane. She claims that Charlotte is Fortnight’s daughter. That Snow White came to her and talked, gave her details of his crimes, like she was his confessor. He told her Charlotte was his child, that her mother, Carlotta, had died giving birth to Joshua Fortnight, her brother. He hated Carlotta, but loved her, too. When she died, leaving him with a deformed child and an uncontrollable daughter, it was the ultimate betrayal. The murders were his way of bringing her back.”
“Tell me this again, it’s too fantastic for words. Charlotte was Eric and Carlotta Fortnight’s daughter?”
“Jane swears she saw Charlotte at the house on two occasions, talking with Snow White and the apprentice. She gave us a description of him, it matches the man you saw at Control. He wasn’t here?” Baldwin swung a hand toward the house.
“No, there’s been no sign of him. The house was empty except for Snow White, I mean, Fortnight, and his son. Holy crap. Charlotte was his daughter. God, that explains a lot. I knew she was batshit crazy.”
Baldwin had an unreadable mask in his eyes. “I talked with Garrett earlier. He’s been able to confirm Jane’s claims. The FBI is going through all of Charlotte’s personal effects now, combing through her computer. They were checking on the abnormalities in her protocols, but when they cracked her firewall, it seems she had a trap set on all the information. Her system wiped itself clean when they tried to access her data files. They have their work cut out for them.”
Taylor’s head was spinning with all this new information. Charlotte Douglas, the child of Snow White. That meant she was from Nashville. Taylor had never met her before. Which was strange, since her parents and Charlotte’s were friends. She must have gone away to school after her mother died. Or something like that. A moment of pity wormed its way into Taylor’s conscious. She pushed it away. The thought would take unraveling, and Taylor didn’t have the time to deal with it now.
“So do we. The copycat is still free. And we need to get to Malik. As soon as he knows that Fortnight is dead, then my father is of no use to him anymore. We have to talk to him now.”
“Let’s go.”
They ran to Baldwin’s car, and he tore out of the driveway, forcing the onlookers to scatter before him.
Forty-Nine
New York, New York
Wednesday, December 24
8:00 a.m.
Anthony Malik was torn between laughing and crying when he saw the videotape for the first time. Saraya was such a good girl. And Conrad Hawley was such a bad boy. How they had gotten so lucky was beyond him. Now he had his ticket, a piece of ingenious editing that would guarantee him safe passage forever.
The attorney general for the State of New York had paled when the news was shared of his frolics being recorded. He had begged. It was a satisfactory feeling. Malik had dangled the key to the safety deposit box in front of Hawley, guaranteed him it was the only copy, and laughed when the man got tears in his eyes.
He was just that powerful.
Malik never thought he’d actually have to use the tape. Just knowing it was out there should have been enough. And he had a backup stashed at the house in Nashville, just in case Hawley got crazy and went after him.
But now, with Win Jackson the turncoat looking for a way out of this mess, Mars dead and one of his trusted men gone, Malik needed a new plan. The time had come to start cashing in some of his insurance policies. He called Atlas, asked him to come by the apartment, and began to pack. New York was getting a bit too warm for his tastes. A trip down south would serve two purposes, getting him away until things shook out, and allowing him a personal cruise through the orphanages for some new blood.
When the doorbell to Malik’s apartment rang twenty minutes later, he didn’t think twice about answering. This was his safe house, one where he couldn’t be surprised. He had several, scattered across several countries. In Manhattan, only Atlas and the poor deceased Dusty knew the address.
It was a fatal mistake. Men in black balaclavas, armed with automatic weapons, poured through his door. They stormed the room, slapping handcuffs around his wrists and a rough sack that stank of blood and vomit over his head. He was silenced easily, forced out the door and shoved into the back of a car before he could catch his breath.
He had bigger problems now. His captors weren’t speaking English.
Baldwin answered the phone on the first ring.
“Hola, Juan.”
“Hola, amigo. We’ve got him.”
“Fantastic. Who will be extraditing him?”
“I’m not sure who is going to lay claim to him first. Several South American governments what to talk to him. But if it weren’t for your help, we would have never caught him. I want to thank you personally. I have a gift for your woman.”
“What’s that?”
“We will not press charges against her father.”
Fifty
Nashville, Tennessee
Wednesday, December 24
9:00 a.m.
Taylor was searching the house for Hershey’s Kisses. She knew there’d been a bagful in the dining room, in the Italian pewter basin on the sideboard, but the bowl was empty now. She foraged through the kitchen cabinets, found three packs of Smarties left over from Halloween and transported from the cabin, but that wouldn’t work. She needed chocolate. Something inside her was craving the sweetest thing she could find, as if that sweetness could fill the chill in her soul.
After the usual rigmarole—the meeting with the department shrink, the placement on administrative duty, Baldwin had taken her home. They’d gotten to bed much too late, and she’d woken abruptly at three, her hands tight around L’Uomo’s neck. She’d strangled him in her dream. Unable to get back to sleep, she’d played a round of pool, then sat and stared blankly at the television, watching reruns of the day’s news until she drifted off again.
She woke in desperate need of something. She knew she was subconsciously craving a cigarette. Damn Stella.
Finding nothing on the first floor of the house, she made her way upstairs, ostensibly to wake Baldwin and demand he tell her where her Kisses had gotten off to. She went into their bedroom. Baldwin had fallen asleep fully clothed the night before, on top of the bedding. His head was at a funny angle, and Taylor immediately went and placed a pillow under his cheek. He smiled and mumbled something unintelligible. The television was still on—a documentary about the Sex Pistols. She watched it vaguely for a few moments, then turned it off and shut off the light, leaving Baldwin to his dreams.
Chocolate, chocolate, chocolate. Where could she find some? She didn’t feel like going out. She really hadn’t wanted to leave the house at all. Purely a psychological reaction to having her life taken out of her hands, she knew that. She puttered around in the kitchen, opening cabinets, until Baldwin’s voice made her jump.
“Look in the freezer.”
She turned and saw him smiling at
her. It wasn’t a happy, good-to-see-you smile, it was more of a grim reminder of what they’d both been through over the past couple of days.
She gave him a look. “How do you know what I’m looking for?”
“You’re looking for chocolate.”
“How do you know that? How in the world could you possibly be that in tune that you know what I’m thinking, what I’m looking for? I hate it when you do that.” She went to the freezer, started scavenging. Behind two Tupperwares of soup, there was a bag of chocolate chips, left over from some cookie-making venture.
She saw the hurt in his eyes, and started to apologize, but something held her tongue.
She pulled the bag out and crossed to the counter, hauling herself up onto a corner. Legs dangling, she dove in, filling her mouth with the sweet goodness. They were hard and crunchy, but delicious.
Baldwin went to the refrigerator and grabbed the milk, then set about making her a cup of tea. She watched him, then accepted the steaming cup. Somewhat mollified, she sipped and said, “Thank you.”
“Wanna talk about it?”
She looked up from the yellow bag. Baldwin was staring at her intently.
“Not really, no.”
“You need to get it out of your system. I can’t imagine all the feelings you must be having now, knowing what’s happening. You did everything right, did what you were supposed to do. And you’re safe, for which I am forever grateful. But you still need to talk about what happened. The kidnapping. Snow White. About your Dad and Malik. About the cases. Us. Anything, Taylor.”
She sipped her tea, not certain why she was angry at Baldwin. He’d done nothing wrong. “No, I really don’t.”
“Babe—”
“I said, no, I don’t. Don’t push me, Baldwin. It was my wedding, too. I’m not in the mood. I’ve killed two men this week, found out my father is alive but I have to send him to jail, my wedding was ruined….”
He took three strides and invaded her space.
“I don’t care what kind of mood you’re in. You have to talk about what happened. We have to talk about all of this. It will fester if you don’t. You have to tell me what’s happening in your head so I can be sure I’m not putting you in a situation—”
“What? What the hell are you talking about? You putting me in a situation?” Taylor jumped off the counter, threw the empty bag in the trash. “I can handle myself just fine, Agent Baldwin. Don’t forget it.”
She stomped out of the kitchen through the mudroom and into the garage. How dare he? She was fuming. She knew she was overreacting, but couldn’t help herself. She slapped the button and the garage door started its lumbering journey up. She went down the steps and yanked open the door to her 4Runner. Baldwin came to the door of the garage, looking at her with an incredibly hurt, inquisitive look on his face. She ignored him, got in the truck and backed out into the driveway. Damn him!
And God damn Win Jackson. This was all his fault. How he had the conscience to put her in this position, to make her choose between the right thing to do and his life. Well, fuck them. Fuck them all.
She drove, not thinking about where she was going. There were fields to her right, a fence and a tree on a hill. One Tree Hill Farm, she knew. Brilliantly original name.
As a rule the bucolic setting calmed her spirit, made her happy. They raised cattle, and normally had two sets of calves a year, one in the spring and again in the fall. She loved to drive by and see the babies trotting after their mothers, lowing for milk. It was one of the reasons they’d bought off of this road, because for a brief moment, Taylor felt like she was in the country driving to and from work.
There were three vultures sitting on the fence posts, leering at a grouping of cattle. Taylor slowed, watching them, so out of place in her mind and her pastoral getaway. Vultures meant death. She glanced at the bulk of black and realized that it was a grouping of cows, each facing outward, protecting something at the center of their circle. She looked closer, trying to figure out what was happening. Her mind filled in the details.
A calf had been born, hopelessly out of season. It was struggling for life. The vultures were there, smelling death, knowing that they would have full bellies this evening. And the cows were protecting the calf from the harpies who would celebrate the end of its life with a feast.
She realized she’d stopped the car only after she was out the door, screaming in fury at the vultures. They hopped away for a moment, glaring at her with all-knowing eyes. Short of hopping the fence and taking the calf in her arms and spiriting it away, there was nothing she could do to stop this.
The anger welled in her, bright and furious. She blamed the farmer for allowing one of his cows to mate out of season, for not watching closer to make sure she gave birth in the barn instead of on a snow-drenched hilltop. She blamed the vultures for being such disgusting beasts. To sit and watch your dinner die in front of your eyes…she imagined the conversation between them. “Oooh, fresh meat, fresh meat.” The thought infuriated her even more, and she was punching the fence, kicking at the posts with her boots, tears tearing down her face.
One of the cows caught her gaze. It stood, implacable, watching her tantrum. It met her eyes and lowed, a bovine acknowledgment of her pain. She was feeling helpless, as well, knowing the life of the calf was ebbing behind her. The sound stopped Taylor’s fury and she dropped to the ground, all the pain releasing in frustrated tears. The vultures took their place on the fence post again, patiently awaiting their turn.
Taylor had no idea how long she’d sat on the ground, crying over the doomed life of a sickly calf. She got up and returned to her truck. She’d left the door open when she got out. She glanced back over her shoulder and saw the cordon of predators shifting slightly. It was time for them to strike, she could sense it. She looked around and found a large rock, which she hurled at the birds. It struck one in the wing, but the vulture simply shook it off, so focused on its meal it couldn’t be bothered.
Taylor wiped the rest of the tears from her eyes. There was nothing more she could do. This was a part of life, this process of the dead feeding the living. The survival of the fittest, the weak providing sustenance for the strong. It didn’t have to be this way, not in this instance, but it had happened so many countless times in the past….
Taylor got in the truck and pulled away. She did a U-turn and headed back toward the house. She owed Baldwin an apology. Damn that man for being right all the time.
Fifty-One
Nashville, Tennessee
Wednesday, December 24
4:30 p.m.
Taylor sat at a round café table, the pungent aroma of coffee permeating the room. She took a sip of her latte, not tasting the contents of the cup. She resisted the urge to put her head in her hands. What a position to be in. She adjusted her weapon, settling it into a more comfortable spot under her arm. She rarely carried concealed, and wondered briefly why she had eschewed her normal hip holster in favor of the shoulder harness. Baldwin preferred the harness, wanted the easy access of the gun coupled with the concealment afforded having the weapon tucked away. Not Taylor. She preferred it hanging on to her hip like a barnacle.
The door jangled, and she looked up, breath in her throat. It was time, then. Baldwin had made the arrangements.
She had her role to play.
Win Jackson cast furtive glances around the small café. Taylor recognized him casing the place, looking for exits, assessing the crowd, making sure he could get away. She put her hands on the table in front of her, the diamond on her left hand winking. Just a normal coffee date between a father and his daughter.
Taylor got caught up in the fantasy for a moment. As he drew closer, she fought the urge to stand and throw her arms around him, greet him warmly with a long-overdue hug. Instead, she stayed put, a stone figure. This man, her own flesh and blood, was up to his ears in mobsters and friends with serial killers. Jesus.
Win reached the table and sat heavily. His eyes were bloodshot, his
gray hair mussed. The sour stench of day-old beer reached her nostrils. He looked like he’d been on the run for a while.
“Nice ring,” Win opened.
Taylor spit out a little laugh. “Yeah. Not so bad. How are you?” Damn it, Taylor, what are you doing? You don’t care about this man. Why are you asking how he is?
Win looked surprised by the question. “I’ve been better, actually. Being dead isn’t so easy.”
“You shouldn’t have gotten yourself in that position in the first place.”
“Who are you to judge, Taylor? I remember your philosophy when you were a kid. There but for the grace of God go I, and all that? What happened to that little girl, huh?”
“She grew up.” Her tone was frosty. Win had just made a tactical mistake. Playing on their old relationship, fragile as it may have been, was not the gambit that was going to work with her. She felt her heart shut down, became all-business.
“Why did you want to meet with me, Win?”
“I don’t even warrant Father from you anymore, Taylor? That is what I am, after all. Your father.”
She met his eyes. A combination of diffidence and begging lurked behind the gray irises, so very like her own, and he looked away.
“You can’t even meet my eye. How am I supposed to call you Daddy when I know what you are?”
“What am I? Huh, Taylor? Answer that. You don’t know anything about—”
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