Twenty-Seven

To: troy14@ncr.tr.com

From: crypto@ncr.zk.com

Subject: Kansas City, MO

Dear Troy,

Entering Kansas City now. It’s been a long drive.

But don’t worry, everything is under control.

ZK

Highway. Again. Gray strips of asphalt that ran on forever. He wished he had more time; he’d get off the interstate and run the roads through the cornfields. Get your kicks, on Route 66. Did Route 66 run through Missouri? He thought it must have, but he couldn’t remember. He carefully placed his knee against the steering wheel and reached beside him for his notebook. Glancing at the road every few seconds, he wrote himself a note.

Check on Route 66.

It was his way. He was the curious type. Despite his previous troubles, he liked to learn. He didn’t have the best memory in the world, so he sometimes had to refresh himself.

Denver had gone so well. It was the best of the three cities he’d been in. It even topped his first in San Francisco. He thought popping his cherry was going to be the highlight of his life, but Denver proved him wrong. It would get better, and better, and better. He was getting more confident. That helped. He chalked Vegas, the flailing and gushing blood everywhere, up to simply being scared. Performance anxiety. He had worried that when the time came, he wouldn’t be able to deliver. He’d gotten himself really worked up and the nerves made him pull the knife early. He rushed the big finish. He hadn’t gotten a real chance to see the terror in their eyes fade to nothingness as they died.

But Denver…oh, sweet mother of God. Denver was perfection. Cherry Creek Reservoir was hand-built for murder. The meandering paths, the snowy lane. Drops of blood on the white canvas of his world, so elegant. He was not making Jackson Pollock paintings. Wait, was that the artist’s name? Jackson? Or Johnson?

He pulled out the notebook again.

One hundred miles to Kentucky. And he was right on time. He bent his neck to the left, then to the right, hunched his shoulders and felt the muscles stretch out. He was so cramped in this car, so boxed in. He needed something bigger to allow his frame to sit comfortably. He had a friend once who’d owned a Prius. He’d lasted an hour in it before his thighs cramped up.

It wouldn’t be too much longer now. He was on the last leg of his itinerary.

Their fearless leader had picked the victims so well. Troy had assured him that the girl would respond to the Craigslist ad. Rollerblades. In winter, at that. He wondered how the man knew so much, then pushed that thought aside. When it was time, he would be enlightened. When he won the game, the master would share all with him—the money, the benefit of his years of experience, his real name. They’d been instructed to call him Troy. If he were being honest with himself, Troy didn’t sound like the name of a man who could mastermind an operation of this kind. But he’d promised the winner the goods. Winner take all. The million-dollar prize. He could do so much with that money.

And once he’d won, been chosen, Troy would hone his new apprentice into a fine, sharp edge, so they could go on killing without ever getting caught.

He wasn’t entirely sure of himself yet. The idea of becoming a serial killer had its upside, yes. Truth be told, he just needed the money. He hadn’t counted on enjoying it so much.

Troy. Wasn’t that the name of that city, the one with the fake horse? All that blood spilled over a woman. What was her name? Hera? No, that was a goddess, Zeus’s wife. Halley? No, that was the name of the girl he’d just killed. Helen? Helen. That sounded right.

He wrote it down in his notebook, just in case.

Twenty-Eight

The glowing green clock in Baldwin’s dashboard read 8:45 p.m.

He tapped his fingers along the wheel, trying to decide what their next step should be. Head back to Nashville? Head north to Raleigh? They might be smart to stay put, at least until Roddie Hall called them back with news about Ruth Anderson.

“That was a sad story,” Taylor said. She had drawn her hair up into a messy ponytail on the top of her head, the ends just wisping against the middle of her back. He loved her hair. So thick it had a mind of its own. He reached over and tugged the holder away, let the mass of it spill over his hand.

“Yes, it was. One of the worst I’ve heard in a long time. Not a huge surprise though. That kind of abuse, deadly abuse, disguised as loving kindness—it’s really no wonder he ended up a killer. He didn’t know any other way to interact with people—”

“But that’s no excuse.”

“No, no, that’s no excuse. Plenty of children are abused and don’t end up murdering people.” He looked over at Taylor. The playful spirit that had bubbled up between them before they talked to the old nurse was gone.

“What trips the switch?” she finally asked.

“If I could answer that, I’d be a very rich man. Every mind is different. You’ve seen this a hundred times, people who weren’t abused do terrible things, people who were abused go on to lead normal, loving lives. We’re back to nature versus nurture. I do think there’s something genetic to all of this, the predisposition could be there, but the choice to kill is just that, their choice.”

“And the odds of one man spawning two killers with two different women?”

“Unthinkable. I don’t know of a case like it. Granted, Betty’s genes played a part. If I had more time, I’d love to do a historical study on both Roger and Betty’s families, just to see. Of course, no one knows who Betty’s real father was, so that’s hard to track.”

She grew quiet, allowed him to massage the tightness in her shoulders.

“Your leg okay?” he asked.

“Yeah, I’m fine. Ms. Potts must be a hell of a nurse. I can’t even feel it.”

“The Neosporin she applied has lidocaine in it. Numbs the skin.”

“Smart.”

She captured his hand, pressed his flesh to her lips. Ah, that drove him crazy. She drove him crazy. Though how he could be thinking about sex at a time like this?

His cell rang, making them both jump like guilty teenagers caught necking in the car. Taylor giggled as he fumbled the phone from its holster. Good, she was feeling better. Melancholy didn’t suit her.

“It’s Hall,” he said, and answered with a truly professional, “John Baldwin.”

“She’s gone, man. Just like you thought. Looks like Ruth Anderson took off at least a few days ago. Neighbors saw her last Saturday, but can’t remember seeing her since. We’ve got evidence galore in her apartment—including emails with directions for the killings in Nags Head. Police chief here in Durham got us a search warrant while we were staging, and we’ve hit the mother lode. Don’t know where she’s headed, but we know where she’s been. And she’s been a busy little bee.”

Baldwin popped in one of his favorite CDs by a band called Butterfly Boucher. He keyed the player up to “Another White Dash,” his ultimate road-trip song, and hummed along to the words quietly. Taylor had fallen asleep just before Knoxville, and he intended to keep her that way.