move I’ll blow your fucking brains out!” Bright light as someone flipped a switch.

And then only the sound of men breathing heavily.

“Are we clear?” Fraley said.

“Clear.”

“Clear.”

Three bodies facedown on the floor on the dirty shag carpet, hands cuffed tightly behind their backs. Two males and a female, all wearing black robes with hoods. Candles scattered around the room on the floor, on the nightstand by the bed, on the vanity near the bathroom. Black candles. A silver cup, a chalice, lay in the center of the floor, apparently overturned in the confusion. Fraley knelt beside it. Most of the liquid inside had spilled onto the floor, making a dark stain.

“Looks like blood,” he said, resisting the urge to pick it up.

One of the agents was hoisting the girl to her feet. She looked to be around twenty years old, redheaded, attractive at first glance, somehow familiar-looking. As she stood the robe fell open in front. She was naked beneath it. Fraley glanced around the room as other agents pulled their prey up off the floor. The other two-the males-were wearing white pancake makeup. They had black hair, with rings in their eyebrows, noses, and ears. They were both naked beneath the robes. There was blood running down both of their forearms. All of them seemed dazed.

“Get the cars,” Fraley said. Three of the agents left immediately.

The girl began to mumble something unintelligible, quietly at first, then more loudly. Fraley couldn’t understand a word she was saying.

“Shut your fucking mouth!” Fraley hissed as he moved towards her and jerked her cuffed hands upwards behind her back. She winced and went silent.

“You’re all under arrest,” Fraley said through gritted teeth. “You have a right to keep your fucking mouth shut, you have a right to a scumbag lawyer. Anything that comes out of your hole can be used against you in court.”

The agents arrived with the vehicles in less than a minute. Fraley shoved the girl towards the door.

“Get them out of here,” Fraley said. He watched as the three were led out to the waiting vehicles. Once they were out of earshot, Fraley walked towards the bathroom. He’d noticed three separate piles of clothing: one pile- obviously the girl’s-was on the vanity next to the sink. Another pile was near the wall next to the vanity, and a third was inside the bathroom on the floor near the toilet. There was a pair of shoes in each pile.

“Bag these up separately and bring them to the office,” Fraley said to Norcross.

“Shouldn’t they go to the lab?” Norcross said.

“They will. But first I have to make sure who they belong to. Watch and learn, my son.”

Tuesday, October 7

As soon as Fraley walked into the office, he turned the thermostat to cool, set the temperature at sixty degrees, and made sure everyone knew to leave it there. The other agents brought the suspects in one at a time. Since there were only two interrogation rooms in the satellite TBI office, Fraley was forced to improvise. Boyer and Barnett were placed in the interrogation rooms. The redhead, the one they weren’t expecting, was handcuffed to a chair in Fraley’s office and left to stew. The door was left open and an agent was posted outside.

Fraley thought about what Dillard had told him. One who commands. A female. This might be her. The lack of makeup and Goth persona certainly set her apart from the others, but she hadn’t done or said anything to indicate she was a leader. After her initial attempt at speaking back at the hotel had been derailed by Fraley’s hammerlock, she’d ridden from the motel to the TBI office in silence in the darkened backseat.

A search of the motel room and the clothing that had been strewn around produced nothing of value-a couple of razor blades, the boys’ wallets, a watch. They hadn’t found even an ID card for the redhead. Fraley still had no idea who she was.

But the green Cavalier parked outside had yielded what Fraley hoped would literally be the smoking guns-two semiautomatic pistols, both nine-millimeter. Drugs were also found in the car-a quarter ounce of marijuana, about a half gram of crystal meth, and a dozen pills, probably hydrocodone or oxycodone, were in the console. When Fraley opened the trunk and flashed his light inside, he saw what appeared to be a bloodstain near the spare-tire well. If it was blood, it might be Norman Brockwell’s. And then there were the shoes and clothes. Maybe the shoes would match footprints found at the scenes. Maybe the clothing would yield fibers. Maybe the tires would match the casts taken from the woods where Norman Brockwell was murdered.

The mobile forensic unit had been on standby at the office and was now going over the room and doing a preliminary on the car. Lab personnel were on standby in Knoxville. The forensics people would do what they could at the scene and then load the car onto a rollback and take it down to Knoxville along with the rest of the evidence. There was usually a significant waiting period for lab work, but this case had been moved to the front of the line. Fraley knew that by midmorning, much of the lab analysis would be finished.

Fraley walked to his office and picked up a few files. The redhead stared at him but said nothing. Fraley did a double take when he saw her eyes. One blue, one green. Piercing, as though they could see straight into his soul, full of hatred. He made a quick trip to the bathroom and walked out to the snack room. He poured himself a cup of coffee and started slathering Cheez Whiz on a cracker. He looked up at the clock on the wall. It was two fifteen a.m. Fraley had been up for twenty-two hours, and it didn’t look like he’d be going home anytime soon.

Fraley had asked Norcross and another agent to Mirandize the suspects again. They were reading the suspects their constitutional rights and asking them to sign a form that acknowledged that their rights had been explained to them and that they understood. He’d already sent two other agents to Levi Barnett’s home to bring back Levi’s aunt, who was identified in his juvenile records as Barnett’s legal guardian. Levi’s father was in prison for dealing crystal meth, and his mother had deserted them a decade ago.

Fraley sipped his coffee and flipped through the files. When he came across the photos of the murdered children, the rage he felt when he thought about his granddaughter returned. He’d looked at the photos only once. They turned his stomach.

He thought briefly about how he would conduct the interrogations. The Reid Technique was now standard operating procedure in law enforcement. Make the suspect as comfortable as possible. Make him think you were there to help him. Try to find some common ground and get him talking; it didn’t matter what the conversation was about initially. The theory behind the Reid Technique was that suspects would naturally feel guilt and want to unload their burden. The officer was there to facilitate the cleansing of the spirit. Get him talking, eventually turn the conversation towards the crime, and gently persuade him to confess.

Fuck that.

If he had his way, he’d subject every goddamned one of them to torture. Maybe a little waterboarding would loosen their tongues. A few well-placed blows to the solar plexus or groin. Maybe even some electroshock therapy. Then, once he had his confessions, he could proceed right to execution. No need for a trial and sentencing once they’d admitted it. Take them out back, shoot them in the head, load them in the back of a pickup truck, and haul them to the city dump. Get them out of the mix and be done with it.

When he came out of his fantasy-induced trance, Fraley noticed that guys were moving in and out of the snack room, trading good-natured insults and laughing. The mood in the office was lighter than it had been in weeks. The raid had gone off without a hitch. Arrests had been made. Evidence had been found and was being processed. The nightmare, it seemed, was over.

Norcross and Taylor came in and sat down, and the others filed out. Norcross had played defensive end at Memphis State before earning a law degree and joining the TBI ten years earlier. At thirty-five, he looked like he belonged on a poster for the Green Berets. His jaw was strong and square, his eyes hazel, and he kept his black hair cut to a half an inch. Taylor was younger, a University of Tennessee accounting graduate who’d been an agent for six years. He was lanky and balding, with a nasal, high-pitched voice that quickly got on Fraley’s nerves.

“What do you think?” Fraley said, looking at Norcross. He was too tired to listen to Taylor.

“The young kid and the girl are cold as fucking ice,” Norcross said. “And did you see that girl’s eyes? Freaky.”

“I take it they didn’t offer to confess.”

“The older guy, Boyer, is the softest one,” Norcross said. “He’s scared shitless. He was shaking so bad he could barely sign the Miranda waiver.”

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