“Oh, Wendy. You’re just teasing me now.”

She laughed, and agreed. “I am. I know you want his name.”

“You better believe it.”

“Ewan Copeland.”

“Ewan Copeland. Ewan Copeland. Why does that sound so familiar?”

“His dad was Roger Copeland. Minor league ballplayer, spent the vast majority of his career in the minors, but got called up to the majors for a year. Played for the Atlanta Braves.”

“Son of a bitch. I remember this now. Roger Copeland was murdered right after the season ended. They thought his wife did it. This is the same case?”

“That’s the case. For what it’s worth, Betty Copeland did kill him. She’s clinically insane. I’m honestly surprised she wasn’t put into permanent long-term psychiatric care. Terrible lawyer. He could have gotten her off on an incompetency plea. Instead she’s serving a hundred and twenty up in Atlanta. She committed the murder, and there was no talking the judge out of the facts.”

“Is she alive?”

“I don’t know. The last time I looked, yes, she was alive and still incarcerated. No parole hearings for Betty. I’ve included all of her information in the material I’ve sent you.”

“And you’re telling me, with a high degree of certainty, that the man who wrote the letter we found in the trailer is the same one who wrote a letter begging for clemency for his mother after she murdered his father?”

“That’s what I’m saying.”

“Wendy, I honestly don’t know how I’m ever going to repay you.”

“I’m sure I’ll need a favor someday. I’ve taken the liberty of overnighting copies of everything I have on this to your home address. You’ll have it first thing in the morning. I hope it helps.

“More than you can possibly imagine, Wendy. I don’t know how to thank you.”

“I’ll figure something out. Dr. Baldwin, just one last thing. This boy was completely dysfunctional after the murder. The rest of his family was dead. He was totally alone. If he’s your killer, he’s obviously grown into something we couldn’t imagine. I’d just like to warn you to be on your guard. He’s a volatile guy.”

“That I already knew. We’ve been trying to profile him for a while now, and the profile keeps changing.”

“That doesn’t surprise me. He had no anchor back then, and obviously never found one.”

“Thank you, Wendy. Again, I can’t begin to tell you—”

“I know. Good luck.”

Baldwin hung up the phone and opened a map of North Carolina on his laptop. It only took a few moments to locate the place—Forest City was just southeast of Asheville, a little more than an hour’s drive from the mountain town. Now that they had the North Carolina connection explained, things were starting to make sense. Copeland leaving Fitz’s eye an hour from his hometown—was he looking to be caught? Had he grown tired of the game, and engineered the slaughter in Nags Head to lead them to his true identity? It stood to reason; even if it was a subconscious ploy, he would eventually want them to know that Ewan Copeland had grown into the Pretender.

Baldwin calculated, it was only six hours to Forest City. In the time it would take to arrange for the plane to come to Nashville and fly them there, they could drive. As appealing as snatching the plane again sounded, Baldwin’s boss, Garrett Woods, was only one man. He couldn’t keep diverting the company jet for a suspended agent. Driving was their best option. If they left now, they could be there before dawn.

But he had to wait for the material Wendy was sending. Damn.

He started to pace, toyed with the idea of going anyway, then made the smarter decision. A good night’s sleep wouldn’t hurt. The line had just gotten a whole lot straighter, and he knew in his heart that they were about to get to the bottom of things at last.

He went to call Taylor, and couldn’t contain the smile on his face.

Eighteen

To: tro14@ncr.tr.com

From: 44cal@ncr.ss.com

Subject: Washington, D.C.

Dear Troy,

It’s all cool. I’m in town. Getting close now, man.

44

Traffic. Stuck in traffic. Always stuck in traffic. His daily commute was an hour each way; he’d taken a week off to play the game and was so excited not to have to deal with the mind-numbing lemming cars, stacked one on top of the other, crawling along. But here he was on the Beltway, late. Late was not good. The schedule was vital.

Shit, shit, shit. If he didn’t make this kill and report in on time, he’d be eliminated.

His leg started bouncing, making the car jerk forward. He managed to slam on the brake just before ramming into the fender of the Infiniti G35 in front of him. Phew. That was close.

The angel shouted at him. Don’t draw attention to yourself. You must be invisible. Invisible. Invisible. Invisible.

He hated this. He didn’t want to be invisible. He wanted to be splashy, huge. Famous. He wanted to have legions of fans, women who wanted to marry him, who sent him their stained underwear. He wanted to be the celebrity of death row. Jail wasn’t so bad. He’d done a few years in his early twenties and hadn’t thought it was that big a deal. Maximum-security might be a little different, but not much. Jail was jail, man, no matter where you slept and who tossed your salad. He was a good-looking guy, too—the beard made him look like Seth Rogen. The jail bunnies wouldn’t be able to keep their eyes off him.

Death row was where it was at. They never really killed people off, not regularly, and not quickly, either. The death row inmates spent twenty, thirty, hell, forty years in play, never having to work, commute, deal with traffic. They had computers and books, three squares a day, time outside to exercise. It was fucking cushy, that was what it was. He wanted in. No more dealing with others if he didn’t want to—he could just do something egregious and sit it out in solitary. Yes, this sounded perfect to him. An escape. He didn’t care if he ever got out. And losing his life, well, it would be worth it.

You’d be dead, homey. And what would happen to me, huh? Where am I supposed to go if you get yourself electrocuted?

Shut up, shut up, shut up, shut up.

If he stuck to the plan, to the letter of the law that had been handed down, he could have that freedom. He could go on a spree, the spree to end all sprees, the one that would live in infamy. He’d gun them all down—the entire fourth floor of the building would lie in their own blood and sick. But he wouldn’t cop out by taking his own life, no, no. He would lean into his lawyer at sentencing and laugh at the judge, show no remorse at his trial. He’d be the biggest sensation they’d ever seen.

That’s better. Go to the crazy house. Tell them you’ve got a head full of crazy. They let you smoke, and fuck in there. Pills galore. The orderlies, you know what I mean? You catch my drift, brother?

Yes, all right. I get it.

The dashboard clock read 8:40 p.m. He rolled down the window, lit an American Spirit. Blew smoke into the chilly fog outside his car. He had to be at the landing by ten if he was going to catch them. Traffic began to move, sluggish at first, then picking up speed. Divine intervention.

He took the exit for the George Washington Parkway, paying close attention now. The park was after downtown, he knew that because of the map. The cars all came with navigation now—that was so cool. Even so, he sometimes got distracted—bullshit, you just a crazy fucker—and he didn’t want to miss the turn. Even in daylight, assignations were made in the park. But it was totally dark in there now, and he’d have his pick of paths to follow.