occult is applying what works for you. You must seek your own truths.”
“Ariadne, now you’re getting into the silly stuff. Tarot cards and palm reading? Come on. Give me a break.”
She smiled, an impish grin. “Aren’t you the least bit curious, Lieutenant? Just the tiniest bit?”
“No, I’m not. I have absolutely zero desire to know what’s coming.”
Fitz flashed into her mind again, bloody, hurt. She couldn’t help but shut her eyes and swallow.
“I can tell you what will happen to him, if you want to know,” Ariadne said softly.
Taylor opened her eyes and stared into the deep blue of the witch’s soul. Yes, she probably could hazard a guess. She had a fifty-fifty chance of being right, too. There were only two outcomes for Fitz-life or death. Taylor didn’t know if she wanted to think about the possibility of the latter.
Ariadne didn’t budge, didn’t breath. They stood, locked in each other’s gaze, until Taylor broke away.
“He’s going to live,” Taylor said with finality, then swept from her office, leaving the witch behind.
Dear God, I hope I’m right.
Thirty-Seven
Northern Virginia June 17, 2004 Charlotte
C harlotte watched Baldwin leave with the Fairfax County folks, then started her own walk through Harold Arlen’s house. She was deeply unsettled by the whole incident. Arlen really had seemed sincere when he claimed he wasn’t responsible, that the photos on his computer were planted there. He admitted to looking at some porn now and again, but just looking. My God, he couldn’t have done anything, the shots took care of that. Where was the fun in that? He couldn’t explain how photos of the dead girls got on his computer-was in tears by the time they carted him off.
She could hear the storm getting closer, the thunder booming. There was a sense of urgency to everyone’s movements; dragging evidence through the wind and rain was the last thing they wanted. She could hear the muffled shouts of people trying to set up some sort of shelter between the crime-scene vans and the front door. Arlen was being transported-for the time being, she felt like she was practically alone with the man’s thoughts.
She went through his bedroom carefully. He was organized, methodical. Shirts in the closet were arranged according to color, and he only had white and blue long-sleeved button-downs. There were five pairs of chinos plus one empty hanger, three pairs of brown loafers. His bathrobe had been securely hung on the back of the bathroom door. His medicine cabinet had inconsequential items-shaving cream, aspirin, all the same brand, Kirkland. He did his shopping at Costco. The shower was clean, not a surprise. His house bespoke the worst about him-controlled, and controlling. Everything in its place. Another check mark on the profile.
Charlotte trailed through the house, looking at everything. The preternatural organization was evident in every room. Finding physical evidence was going to be tough-he was meticulous. And they needed the physical evidence to tie Arlen to the Clockwork Killer case. Somewhere in this house, there was a knife with a ten-inch blade, and ligatures, and some sort of bat or bar used to break the girls’ legs. The medical examiner had been relatively sure the girls had been lying down when their legs were broken, a rounded instrument used to crack their tibias and fibulas cleanly.
So where would he have done it? A bed? The floor? Some sort of table? Charlotte tried to get into Arlen’s mind. What would she do if she needed to restrain a young girl?
She shut her eyes and let the terror overwhelm her.
She would put her somewhere scary. In the dark. Away from any sort of light. With creepy, crawly things, rats and spiders and the cold, dark, dank air that signaled you were underground.
A memory rose unbidden to the surface. Her father, a tyrant on the best of days, locking her in the wine cellar below their house, punishment for some perceived transgression.
She shuddered at the thought, then went looking for Arlen’s basement.
Thirty-Eight
Nashville 12:30 p.m.
T he conference room was set up just the way Taylor liked it-whiteboards overflowing with information, victims’ photographs at the top, so they could fill in any and all information on the victimology. A separate board was kept for information about the killer. Taylor went to that, unfurled the drawing Ariadne had given her and pinned it up.
“Who’s that?” Marcus asked.
“This is the drawing Ariadne did of the kids she followed Halloween night. Her view of the killers. With and without makeup. She didn’t recognize Thorn, but she did pick Susan Norwood out of a six-pack. I want that girl back here. She’s involved in the killings and the drugs.”
“I’ll get on it,” Marcus said, stepping from the room.
Lincoln was tapping away at his laptop. She heard him whistle, low and long, then he got up and stared hard at the drawing. He went back to the laptop, tapped a few times, then said, “Come here and look at this, LT. I’ve got something.”
Taylor joined him, looking over his broad shoulder at the laptop’s digital screen. He was on a video-sharing site.
“Please tell me this isn’t the movie again,” she said.
“Nope. This is from the address that was part of the ghost IP. Another upload from the same place.”
He hit Play on the video.
A horrendous racket launched from the speakers, clanging, industrial noises overlaid with some sort of melody. A deep screaming emanated, words hardly recognizable. The subtitle read, A Goth Makeup Tutorial. The screen went black for a second, then a girl’s face filled the space. She was pretty, high cheekbones, wide eyes that were very, very green. Taylor knew in an instant they were colored contacts-Baldwin had naturally clear-green eyes that were just as bright, but much more beautiful. The video accelerated, double time, the girl covering her face in pearly makeup, applying blush, penciling in eyebrows, then going to work on her eyes.
The black rings grew and grew, each swipe applied with a steady, practiced hand. She built a foundation around the eye, each stroke making it deeper, wider, layering on coat after coat of mascara until the green stood out like an emerald and the rest of her face disappeared. She moved to her lips, outlining them in black, then filling the pillows in. A small white line was drawn above the cupid’s bow. Then she went back to the eyes again, adding long, draping tendrils of black in perfect swirls down her cheeks.
Finished! The subtitle screamed, then the shot went back to the girl, a quick before-and-after. When she smiled, her teeth were white against their black background; the long fangs in place of her bicuspids made Taylor think about the gaping mouths in Barent Johnson’s bedroom. Then the video was over, the grating noise ended.
“What do you think about that?” Lincoln asked.
Taylor smiled at him, then went to the whiteboard and brought Ariadne’s drawings to him.
“That’s her, isn’t it?” she asked.
Lincoln nodded. “I think it is. It certainly looks like her.”
“Please tell me that video has a name attached.”
“It does. The credits say, ‘starring The High Priestess Fane, as herself.’”
“Fane. Fane. Why does that name sound familiar?” McKenzie said.
Taylor went to the conference table and grabbed the file folder from Hillsboro High School, held it up triumphantly.
“She’s in here. On the list of Goth kids at Hillsboro.”
Taylor flipped it open, scanning through the names until she saw what she was looking for. She read aloud
