“What pattern?”
McBride pointed to each of the crime photos. “Look at the wheels. They’re all incomplete, just like the tattoo on the back of his neck. 1924, it has twelve spokes, if you include the victim’s finger. 1954, thirteen spokes. 1971, fourteen. And 1981, fifteen. Each one is a progression. Like he’s working his way toward completing the wheel.”
Pope stared at the photos, stunned. He’d been too busy looking at the carnage to see the pattern. But there it was, as plain as can be.
But then another pattern began to take form in his mind. One that sent a chill rippling through his body.
“Look at the dates of each of these killings,” he said.
“What about them?”
“We already know Jillian died in 1981, the same year Anna was born.”
Jake frowned. “So?”
“Check the others. Jillian was ten years old when he took her. Which means she was born in ’71, the same year the high school girl, Mary Havershaw, was murdered. Probably the same day.”
“Oh, my god,” McBride said. “You’re right.”
“Havershaw was seventeen, and seventeen years earlier, Anita Dallworthy was killed.”
“And Dallworthy was thirty. That puts her birth year at 1924, when the woman in the alley was found.”
“Which means what?” Jake asked.
“It’s hard to tell from these photos,” Pope told him, “but remember what Susan said when she saw Anna?”
“She thought she was Jillian.”
“Right. Because of her eyes. She said, ‘All of his victims had your eyes.’ I thought she was just babbling at that point, but maybe she was trying to tell us something.”
“Wait a minute,” Jake said. “You aren’t saying what I think you’re saying?”
“I’m afraid so. Every single one of these victims is Anna. One of Anna’s past lives.”
The booth was suddenly quiet, McBride’s gaze glued to the crime scene photos, her face filled with alarm.
“I don’t know how or why he’s doing it,” Pope said to her, “but that someone special he keeps looking for is you. And he’s been killing you over and over again.”
McBride kept staring at the photographs, as the depth and magnitude of this pronouncement hit her full force.
And Pope wasn’t sure if it was shock or the exhaustion that got to her, but for the second time that day, she fainted dead away.
PART THREE
3 8
She dreamt of wheels with spokes made of severed fingers.
Thousands of them superimposed on one another, turning like the gears of a clock.
And at the center of it all was the face of young girl. The gypsy girl from the locket. Her dark eyes shining in the light of a campfire.
“Who are you?” Anna asked.
“You don’t remember me?”
“No. Should I?”
“Give it time,” the girl said. “It will come.”
Another strange bed.
There were no stars on the ceiling this time, just a narrow slice of moonlight that came in from a nearby window, exposing a faint crack in the plaster.
Anna pulled herself upright, bedsprings groaning, and realized she was in a motel room. And not a particularly nice one at that.
“You’re awake,” a drowsy voice said.
She turned and saw Pope sitting in a chair by the door, her Glock in hand, as if he’d been standing guard. On the floor next to him was a flashlight and Susan’s notebook.
“How long have I been out?” she asked.
“Not long enough. I think we both need about a year’s worth of sleep.”
“Did you get any?”
He shrugged. “I may have dozed a bit.”
She looked around the room. “Why are we here?”
“When you passed out on us, I didn’t want to take you back to Jake’s house. Not with all this Troy business still hanging over me. This place was about a block from the coffee shop, so…” He gestured, as if to say, Here we are.
“And Jake?”
“He wanted to get that stun gun to the lab. He still thinks we can find this guy with traditional police work.”
“And you don’t?”
Pope looked at her as if he thought this was an unnecessary question. “I’m beginning to think Susan’s right. He really is the bogeyman.”
Anna felt a knuckle of fear in her stomach. “He’s coming back for me, isn’t he?”
“Unless he bleeds to death first-and I don’t think that’s gonna happen. I think the best we can hope for is that he’s been slowed down a little.”
“But why me? What does he want?”
“I think that’s pretty obvious, don’t you?”
Anna thought about it, then nodded, remembering what Red Cap had said to Jillian.
I’ve come for what is mine, Chavi.
I’ve come to make it right.
“He wants my soul.”
“That would be my guess.”
“But if he killed me all those times before, what stopped him? Why hasn’t he gotten it already?”
“That’s what I’ve been trying to figure out.”
Anna swung her legs around and sat on the edge of the bed. It took some effort. She couldn’t remember her body ever feeling this battered. Even after her screwup in San Francisco.
Gesturing to the notebook on the floor, she said, “You’ve been busy.”
Pope nodded. “Trying to decipher Susan’s writings. But it’s all encrypted, and I’ve never been very good at puzzles.”
Anna stood up. “Let me take a look.”
Pope held a hand up to stop her. “You still need rest. We’ll tackle this in the morning.”
She didn’t listen to him. Crossing to where he sat, she bent down and started to reach for the notebook, but he caught her by the wrist.
“In the morning,” he said. “We need clear heads and rested bodies.”
He set the gun on the floor and stood up, pulling her upright. They stood there for a moment, staring at each other, and Anna felt that same stutter of electricity she’d felt in the Worthington living room, when he put his
