She crossed the room to her office, felt Ariadne behind her. She stepped inside and went to her desk, signaling for her to take the chair in front and close the door. Once she was seated, Ariadne dropped the smile.
“Lieutenant, I’m feeling a great disturbance-”
Taylor cut her off. “Listen to me. You’ve done us a great service, pointing us in what seems to be the right direction on these murders. But I’m going to have you taken home now. We can take it from here.”
“No, you can’t,” she said simply.
“Actually, yes, we can. We’ve got all the components now, it’s just a matter of unraveling the evidence. We’re almost there.”
Ariadne shook her head. “You just don’t get it, Lieutenant. It’s not over. You’re still missing the warlock who is at the heart of this.”
“Do you know where he is?”
Ariadne shook her head. “But-”
“Then you need to go home and let us do our jobs. We’re actually quite good at finding people, you know.”
“Not when they’ve got cloaking spells in place. You won’t see him until he wants you to, Lieutenant. And by then it’s going to be too late.”
“Cloaking spells. Come on, lady. You’re starting to sound flat-out batty. It’s time to go.” Taylor stood. Ariadne’s face was a mask-she didn’t move from her chair.
“Do you know how many of us are out there, Lieutenant? In and out of the broom closet?”
“The broom closet?”
“Some coven members like to keep themselves hidden from their secular lives, Lieutenant. They don’t want the rest of the world to know that they’re practicing. We call that ‘in the broom closet.’ Samhain, Halloween, is the only night of the year when we can publicly flaunt ourselves. Christians, Jews, Wiccans, Goths, pagans-all the alternate religions, and most of the mainstream ones, recognize this night. Harmless activities have replaced the pagan rituals-dressing up, trick-or-treating, jack-o’-lanterns. By recognizing these symbols year after year, the associations are made. You have granted this date significance, and its power comes from that. It is the one holiday that we all have in common, religious and secular, throughout the world, and that makes it twice as powerful. When someone recognizes us on Samhain our spirits reincarnate, because we believe that we will live on long after our deaths. We have a great deal of power on Samhain. These children know this. They’ve utilized the symbolic to help their purpose. They’re perverting our ways, and I want them punished.”
“That’s for the courts to decide, Ariadne.”
“Not entirely true, Lieutenant. We are responsible for these children’s actions, just as surely as they are.”
“Ariadne, really. I appreciate your help so far, but I’ve got to go back to the practical world. I’ll have a patrol get you home safe.”
The note of finality in her voice was enough, at last. Ariadne bowed her head, stood and said, “As you wish.”
Forty-Five
Quantico June 18, 2004 Baldwin
T he phone startled Baldwin awake. He saw the number and cursed. Goldman. He put the phone to his ear and pretended to sound alert. It was only 6:00 a.m.
“This is John Baldwin.”
“We found her.”
Three little words. Baldwin felt his heart sink. They’d failed, again. For the sixth time, they’d failed.
The forest was silent. The rain had made the path sloppy, it was slow going. The birds knew they were coming and after a flurry of wings and warning cries, had clammed up. All Baldwin could hear was the sound of the team’s feet on the gravel path, the soft layer of fallen leaves cushioning each step. The cycle of life was never more apparent to him than when he was surrounded by trees. No matter the season, shedding occurred.
Charlotte was breathing heavily behind him. They’d been hiking uphill for the better part of an hour now, and she was getting winded. At least she’d worn boots, although he could tell they were brand-new and bet she’d have some seriously impressive blisters by now. He’d never seen her in anything but the highest of heels. And barefoot, of course.
He glanced back at her, red hair billowing out of a ponytail, a small moue of distaste on her lips, and felt his breath catch when he thought of that hair lying across his thighs. She’d been at his place every night this week, and he was starting to enjoy not waking up alone. She’d become a comfort, in addition to a bedmate, and he knew he was getting in way over his head. The two halves of his brain had been arguing in the background, creating a fuzz of noise like an out-of-range radio station. He’d been trying very hard to ignore the fight, but in the quiet of the forest, he couldn’t tune it out. Now she wanted to transfer out of the BAU so they could be together. The thought frightened him more than anything. He wasn’t ready.
It’s just sex, for Christ’s sake. What are you so twerped out about?
I’ve been alone for too long. That’s what. I might get too comfortable with the situation, and you never know where it will lead.
That’s your hormones talking. She’s worth lusting over. She might even actually like you, dummy. Did you ever think of that?
He hadn’t. Not really. He just assumed he was a tool, a rung on the career ladder for her. What if he was wrong? What if she had real feelings for him? What if he had real feelings for her?
Get your head back in the game, damn it. You’re about to see a dead girl. One who died because you were too busy fucking Charlotte to catch the killer.
He breathed deeply, synchronizing his breath with the breeze cascading through the fragrant pines. Sunlight dappled the thick branches, turning the path gold. Physically, he was fine. He’d been training for the Marine Corps Marathon for the past few months and was in the best shape of his life. Emotionally, though-that was another story.
He’d never been so sure of his gut instinct before. Harold Arlen was their suspect. He was the Clockwork Killer. Every law enforcement officer, every neighbor, every member of the media, everyone, everyone thought Arlen was responsible. The pictures on his computer, his interactions with Evie Kilmeade, all of his actions led them to that conclusion.
But there was still absolutely zero physical evidence to prove that. They had no semen, saliva, hair, blood, epithelials, fingerprints. Nothing. He’d violated his probation, but at the arraignment, the judge had unfathomably let him out on bond.
A decent defense lawyer would make mincemeat of their case, and Arlen knew it. He had covered his tracks too damn well.
Baldwin felt like he had gotten to know Harold Arlen, better than he’d known most suspects he’d hunted. Kilmeade had been right. On the surface, Arlen was the poster boy for reformed sexual predators. The nicest touch was helping to run the group for reformed molesters who met and worked their way through a specific twelve-step program designed just for them. No one could get inside his head, though-into the tiny, nasty little crevices that housed his innermost desires. Baldwin had caught a glimpse or two during the interviews, when Goldman had struck a nerve and Arlen had reacted. But for the most part, Arlen had taken the accusations in stride, shaking his head and occasionally quoting his “sponsor.”
They’d had people on him 24/7, tracking his every move. Yet here they were, hiking deep into a forest to see the body of the latest little girl who’d disappeared, exactly one week ago today. Like clockwork.
