The remark made Emily bristle slightly. She'd made some bad choices, too. 'What a cruel game a sick manipulator like Dylan Walker plays with a lonely woman'
Christopher seemed to understand. 'The only problem with this is that Bonnie Jeffries never had any kids of her own. Black market babies?'
'I'm not sure. But she did have those baby pictures. Remember? There were photos of kids that meant something to her.'
'A lot of adoption agency people keep a wall of fame. You know the place where they can stick up all the photos so they can feel good about what they've done'
'Yes, but this was at her home. That makes it even more personal'
Emily looked down at the names in her notebook: Herb La Sift, Eddy Bunt, Johnny 'Ace' Wage. 'Maybe there is a little game of sorts going on here' She and Jenna had played Scrabble every night when Jenna was in seventh grade and going through that awkward 'no one likes me' phase that afflicts so many prepubescent girls. That all changed, good or bad, when Shali Patterson decided to make Jenna her 'new' best friend.
'Eddy Bunt is an anagram for Ted Bundy,' Emily said.
Bundy, of course, was the superstar serial killer of the 1970s, having been the prime suspect in dozens of murders of pretty young women from the Northwest, Colorado, and eventually Florida where he met his fate strapped into Old Sparky, the electric chair. She glanced over at Christopher, who had a dumbstruck look on his face. 'Remember her book collection? How her reading material seemed to indicate a preoccupation with serial killers?'
He did-the mostly red and black volumes filled the dead woman's shelves-Lethal This, Deadly That, Fatal Whatever. 'To know one is to love one, I guess. And yes, I remember. You get that by just looking at the letters?'
Emily shrugged; it wasn't exactly a gift, but merely a practiced ability.
'Yes, but the others are more difficult. Nothing's popping out at me. She tore some squares of paper and wrote one of each letter of Johnny 'Ace' Wage's name. 'You work this one'
He took the pieces of paper and stretched them out on the floor.
'I'll do Herb La Sift,' she said.
'You're not going to time me, are you?'
He grinned. 'Good, because I'm not a right-brain guy.'
'I know.' Two minutes later, Emily had her puzzle figured out. 'I think I took the easy one,' she said. 'This one's Albert Fish.'
'Fish?' Christopher looked at her blankly. 'Doesn't ring a bell.'
'He should. Think fava beans and a nice Chianti.'
'Hannibal Lecter?'
'Yeah, the original. He was convicted in the thirties. Killed a dozen or more boys and ate them'
'Lovely.'
She looked over Christopher's shoulder. 'I ought to be on Wheel of Fortune or something. I've got yours done'
'Thanks for nothing,' he said. 'Who's this gem?'
'John Wayne Gacy.'
'Jesus, everyone's favorite clown, that one'
He was right. At least every psycho's favorite clown. Gacy was the suburban Chicago serial killer who had raped and murdered thirty-three young men and boys. While he was hobnobbing with the Jaycees and donning his clown costume he wore to visit sick children, he was burying body after body in his crawl space.
'Seems like Bonnie was the creative type,' Emily said.
Christopher scooped up the slips of paper. 'More like deranged ''
Emily searched Christopher's dark eyes. If she was looking for comfort, she found it. Understanding, too. But she also felt something just then that she hadn't counted on. For the first time, she saw him as man, not a coworker. A supporter, not a colleague helping her because he'd been paid to do so. She knew the rest of the world viewed law enforcement as one big club bound forever in blue, but that wasn't always so. As in any profession, insecurities, competitiveness, and jealousies play a role in how those with a badge treat one another.
After the Kristi Cooper debacle, Emily Kenyon had learned how frail support and loyalty really could be. It was like a thin string, stretched and snapped. Several of her friends made derisive comments about her during the investigation, which ultimately exonerated her. In a way she learned how hard it was for a defendant to recover his or her good name after an acquittal. Once the bell has rung, it can never be completely silenced. Even David made cruel remarks about how she'd let the heat of it all steal her wits, how she shouldn't have done what she did.
But never Christopher. He was true blue from the moment Reynard Tuttle was shot, to the dreadful discovery of Kristi Cooper's body by those boys out with their BB gun, to the departmental investigation by her supposed friends and colleagues.
'What is it about you?' she asked. 'Why did you stick up for me?'
Christopher set his hand on her shoulder. 'Look, what happened to you could have happened to me. To anyone. You were doing your job. You have always been a million times better than that one incident. What happened never defined you for a second. Not to me. Not to anyone who really knows you.'
But to David, it was the crack that grew to a chasm.
Without saying a word, her eyes now cast downward, Emily started to sob. She didn't want to cry in front of Collier just then, but her emotions were so jagged, she just let go.
Christopher put his other hand on her opposite shoulder and gently turned her to make her face him dead on. 'Don't do this,' he said. 'Don't beat yourself up again.'
She shook her head slightly. 'I don't know.' She knew she couldn't change what had happened to Kristi, but she wondered how much that played into Jenna and Nick's disappearance. She was thinking of her daughter just then, not Kristi.
'What if we don't find Jenna?' she asked.
Christopher wrapped his strong arms around her. He didn't hold her too long, or too tightly. 'We will,' he said softly in her ear. 'We're going to get her and bring her home'
A voice called out into the darkness. It was indifferent. Barely louder than a whisper. A voice of ice. Just words strung together. 'Hey. You. Hey?'
It came from a slit of light, across the blackened space.
Is this God? Am I dead?
In an instant the light was snuffed out with a thunderclap, like a trapdoor into another world. Darkness consumed the space. Jenna Kenyon couldn't move. She hurt everywhere. She wanted to touch the back of her head; she was sure she'd been injured somehow. The pain was disorienting. The dark ness didn't help. Maybe hit over the head? Blacked out? But she didn't know. When she went to move, she found her arms, and then her legs, were paralyzed. She was supine on a cot or mattress, smelly and damp. She was so unsettled, so confused, that she had no clue where she was or how she got there. After the light went out, she felt the presence of another, somewhere in the room, the cave. Wherever she was.
'Hello?' she asked, her voice trembling with fear. She heard something, but it was behind her and she was unable to turn. 'Hello?' She twisted her body and tried to squirm into a sitting position, but it was no use. Her limbs were bound tightly by rope or cording.
Then he spoke. 'Jenna?' His voice was recognizable, but her thoughts were so hazy, Jenna couldn't say who it was just then. 'Are you all right? I'm over here'
She tried to follow the sound with her eyes, searching through the blackness of the smelly black place. She knew for sure that she wasn't alone, and she wasn't sure if she should feel relief or fear. Her memories were hazy and as she slowly regained consciousness, her terror began to spike.
'Nick?' she asked, barely able to keep from crying. His name came from her lips with more hope than confidence. 'Are you here?'
A muffled noise. Then an answer.
'Yeah,' he said. 'I'm over here. I'm tied up with some tape or something. I can't move. You free?'
Jenna let her tears flow. It wasn't possible to hold them any longer. Not there in the dark. 'No. No, I'm
