Taylor envisioned the woman, curled on a sofa in front of the crackling fire, her small pale feet tucked beneath her, long, luxurious black hair swirling around her body like a cloak. She wished she felt the kind of peace Ariadne seemed to embody.
“I’m happy he’s going to be okay. As for me, well, I’m as fine as I can be, considering,” Taylor answered. At least she had been honest. “Listen, we found the boy that’s been missing since Halloween.”
“He’s dead,” Ariadne said, a statement, not a question. Ariadne always knew things.
“Yes. There was a pentacle spray-painted on a tree close to where we found the body.”
“Were there any markings on the body?”
“None that we saw. I don’t think it’s related, but I could be wrong.”
“Don’t second-guess yourself, Taylor. Your instincts are always right.”
“You know about the man who has been stalking me. I’m wondering if this was him, trying to draw me out.”
“You want to be drawn out, though.”
Shit. Maybe this hadn’t been the best idea. “Ariadne, I just need to know if this boy is connected to the earlier case.”
“Give me a minute.”
There was silence, then a sigh. “I don’t believe he was a part of the Halloween massacre.”
“That’s what I thought, too. Thank you. I’ll see you soon, all right?”
“Taylor?”
“Yes?”
She could hear the hesitation in Ariadne’s voice. “Go careful. You don’t want things backfiring. Some situations are…irreversible.”
The witch was drowsing again. How she managed to read Taylor’s emotions and intentions over the phone was uncanny.
“I will. Have a good night.”
“May the blessings of Diana be upon you, sister.”
Taylor glanced at the chilly moon and smiled, then hung up, pushed Ariadne’s warning from her mind and thought about the timing of Peter Schechter’s murder again.
He’d been missing since Friday. Five days. Plenty of time for the Pretender to swing through town and grab him. Maybe he had someone do it for him, like Nags Head. Maybe she’d been hanging around Baldwin for too long, seen too many oddities in her own cases, but the idea of a gang of killers executing a game was all too real to her.
This could easily be connected to the Pretender. She was a cop, she didn’t believe in coincidence. A pentacle painted on a tree near the dead boy, not exactly the same, but similar. She had to throw that thought into the mix. The Pretender was a copycat, after all. It was entirely possible that he was simply poking at her, yet again.
But when he mimicked, it was down to the most minute details. This could be a random murder, completely unrelated to either of the cases.
Poor Peter Schechter. Whatever his story, he didn’t deserve this.
She was already at her exit. She glided down the silent ramp, suddenly anxious to get home. Baldwin would help chase away the lingering darkness. The streets were quiet in the bitter night air, so it only took her ten minutes.
The lights were burning brightly when she pulled into the drive. She smiled-of course he hadn’t gone to bed. She was glad. In the midst of all this turmoil, she needed her anchor. Baldwin was her very heart.
He was waiting for her in the kitchen, a huge grin plastered on his face. He swept her into a hug.
“Mmm, I’m glad you’re home.”
“Me, too.”
“I made you some soup. Chicken noodle.” He played with her hair, still smiling widely.
“I can smell it. Are you anticipating me getting sick sometime soon?”
“Of course not. Just helping you keep your resistance up.” He kissed her, softly at first, then with a building passion.
This, this was heaven. Coming home to the man she loved, the warm scents of food and lingering smoke from the fire. Could she give all of this up if she were caught? Shh, she told her mind. Stop thinking about it.
She returned the kiss, wrapped her arms around Baldwin’s strong body. She loved that he was taller than her, they fit together so perfectly. Just as she started thinking less of the warm soup and more of their warm bed, he broke away.
“Not just yet,” he said.
“Damn.” She ran her hands through his hair. “I was thinking we might…”
“Oh, and we will. But I have something really awesome to tell you first.”
“What?”
“Come sit down.”
He led her to the table, then went back to the stove and spooned out the soup. He crossed the kitchen carefully and set the full bowl on the placemat in front of her.
“Eat,” he commanded. She didn’t dare disobey. He had something up his sleeve, she could tell. She dipped her spoon in the smooth golden liquid, let the salt burst into her mouth. Oh, that was so good.
After several mouthfuls, she set the spoon down. “Okay. Tell me. You look like a little boy at his birthday party, about to dive into the cake.”
Baldwin took a deep breath and grinned. “I know who he is.”
“You know who who is?”
As she said it, she realized. Felt her breath catch in her throat.
Baldwin handed her his notes.
She abandoned the soup.
November 7
Twenty-One
“T ell me again.”
The Federal Express truck had arrived at 7:30 a.m. with the package from Wendy Heinz, and they’d gotten on the road fifteen minutes later. They were due in to Forest City at 2:00 p.m. local time, and Baldwin was pretty sure they could shave a good twenty minutes off that if they could keep up the pace. As he drove, Taylor had read him the entire contents of the file Wendy had sent. They were just outside of Knoxville, the sky a stormy gray. Rain was chasing them westward, rain that would turn to overnight snow in the North Carolina mountains. The Blue Ridge, so aptly named, was putting on a show for them, the cobalt horizons murky and amorphous.
Taylor went back to the beginning of the file and started over.
“Ewan was born in 1980, the second of three boys. Mother was Elizabeth, known as Betty, father was Roger. Betty was a native of Forest City. Her dad, Edward Biggs, owned a barbecue joint that passed into her ownership when he died. She was nineteen at the time. She met Roger Copeland in 1977, when he was a successful third basemen for the Richmond Braves, that’s the farm team for Atlanta. They got married, had their first child, a boy named Edward, named after her father, in 1978. They had Ewan in 1980 and Errol in 1982. You know, that’s strange. There’s nothing in here about the youngest child after the trial. I wonder where he is?”
“We’ll have to ask around. I’m sure someone will know what happened to him.”
“This just gives me the willies. He belongs to someone, Baldwin. He has a past, a life.”
“Of course he does. They all do, honey. We only find out about them once that background has turned into a seething mass of hatred, and they lash out in desperation, or desire. But they all come from somewhere. Whether they’re a product of their upbringing or they’re born with it, they were, at some point, innocent.”
She shook her head, ponytail swinging around her neck, and looked out the window. “Ewan Copeland was never an innocent.”
