“Taylor, meet Jane Macias.”
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
Nashville, Tennessee
Tuesday, December 23
8:30 p.m.
They had the house surrounded. Taylor was right behind the SWAT detail, ready to make entry with them. She hoped for an easy arrest but was prepared for the worst. Who knew what kind of fortification Snow White had put in place? And if L’Uomo had warned him of an imminent betrayal…no, that wouldn’t have happened. If her theory was correct, Malik was furious with Fortnight for letting his apprentice hit the massage parlor, killing two of Malik’s girls and allowing the videotapes to fall into the hands of the police. Fortnight no longer mattered to Malik. They had nothing to lose.
Taylor gave the go sign and the black-clad human weapons flooded the estate.
*
The apprentice had secreted himself in the bushes toward the back of the estate while he staunched the flow of blood from his side. It was an easy wound to treat, not terribly deep. The bullet had grazed him, startling him with the intensity of the pain. That fucking blind imbecile had shot him and ruined his plans. He knew he was well hidden; no one could see him behind the dead log in these woods, despite there being no leaf cover. The bleeding had nearly stopped when he heard the fury start, the cars, the silent footsteps, the hushed commands. They knew. They’d found them. He must move now if he had any hope of escape.
The girl, Jane, must have led them here. He knew it was a horrific mistake to leave her alive after that first night. He had begged to be allowed to kill her. It was more than the release; she was a liability. Snow White had refused. He wanted to play with this one, to reclaim some of his former glory. But he wasn’t strong enough to hold a knife, much less his own dick.
Once Snow White realized who she was, well, the whole plan fell apart. The shit hit the fan with that New York faggot…. He thought that perhaps Snow White was going to make a present of the girl. A peace offering. What a waste. She would have looked lovely with a blade in her throat.
No more beautiful imitations, no more gaping black smiles and bloody lips. When Charlotte had sided with her father, she had to go.
He watched the rear entry team creep along the back of the house. It was well and truly over now. It was time to move along, find another masterpiece to recreate. He’d learned enough.
*
Taylor followed the team into the entry hall. They were met with no resistance. The place seemed deserted, the dual staircase vaulting toward the second and third stories devoid of movement. The foyer was clear. She started to hear the clear signs coming through her earpiece, but didn’t relax. He was here, she could feel it.
Her feeling was confirmed a moment later.
The team crowded the hallway that housed the locked door. With a silent one, two, three, entry was made.
The den, or library, Taylor corrected herself, seemed empty at first, but she realized there were two men in the room. Neither of them moved when the group drew down on them. One was blind, that was blatantly obvious. The other, an older man, bent at the shoulders and crippled, sat in a large cordovan leather chair, his twisted hands folded awkwardly on top of a bone-handled cane.
Time froze for a moment as Taylor realized she must have been wrong, that this creature would never be able to kill.
And then she saw the ring, glowing from its home on his bent finger.
“Eric Fortnight, you are under arrest.” She didn’t lower her weapon, but came closer, trying to look into the eyes of a killer.
It was bound to happen. Things had gone so well, so quietly, until now. When Taylor met his eyes, she saw the coldness, the emptiness. He smiled at her, made her skin crawl. Ten women had died at his hands. An additional six under his tutelage.
When he lunged at her, she didn’t think, just squeezed the trigger.
His body jerked, recoiled against her bullets. He was on the floor in a heartbeat, and the pandemonium began.
*
Taylor stood in the driveway of Eric Fortnight’s house, blankly looking toward the windows. It was a clean shoot, but Price had arrived and taken her weapon. Standard administrative details. She would be on leave until the shooting was ruled justifiable, and she’d seen the shrink. Maybe that wouldn’t be such a bad thing, considering.
It was over. The Snow White Killer was dead. But there was no sign of his apprentice. The ruined thing that was Eric Fortnight’s son Joshua wasn’t the man Taylor had seen at Control. He was in the wind.
The evidence was mounting. At least two mysteries had been solved. The emulsion of frankincense and myrrh that was on all the dead girls’ faces had been matched back to the house. A small jar of Boswellin cream, a pain reliever used for rheumatoid arthritis, sat on the table next to Snow White’s chair. He had the cream all over his hands. The image of how that had gotten on the dead girls’ temples, of Snow White holding their heads, transferring the benign material to their faces, made her want to throw up. Despite his infirmities, he’d helped kill these girls, held them, stroked them. And there was a room on the third floor that contained knives, rope and dried blood. Taylor was confident there would be three DNA matches—to Elizabeth Shaw, Candace Brooks and Glenna Wells. She prayed there weren’t more.
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.
CHAPTER 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.”
CHAPTER 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 t
o 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.
Lieutenant Taylor Jackson Collection, Volume 1 Page 89