“You’re an excellent artist,” Taylor said. “These are the two you were talking about?”

Ariadne nodded.

‘There’s just one problem. It’s going to be hard to figure out who they are with all this makeup on them.”

“I took the liberty of trying it without, as well,” Ariadne said.

She flipped the paper; a second drawing was below. This captured the exact same scene, but none of the children were obscured by makeup.

“Ah,” Taylor said. “If this is them, we can work with this.”

“That’s them. The little girl from the photograph slapped the big boy here, then they chased after her. I’m sorry, it’s the best I could do under the circumstances.”

Taylor was glad they’d decided to let Ariadne go home last night, with a patrol on her house to assure that she didn’t try to leave. Taylor imagined it hadn’t been a fun night for her. Regardless, the drawings were as good or better than any of their artists could have done with an Identi-Kit, that was for sure. Taylor looked them over one more time.

“I’m going to take these pictures with me, okay? I need to see if anyone who knows these children might recognize them. What do you plan to do?”

“Pray. I plan to pray to the Goddess for your success.”

Taylor stared at the picture for a few more minutes, then looked Ariadne straight in the eye. She weighed her words carefully.

“My detective thinks I should trust you.”

“He’s a very smart man.”

“Then tell me the truth. Do you honestly believe in all of this?”

Ariadne didn’t blink, but the pupils of her eyes grew larger. “I do, Lieutenant. With all my heart. It is who I am. I know that’s hard for you-you’re a very black-and-white person. There’s nothing wrong with that, nothing at all. I imagine in your line of work it can be quite useful. But me. ..I see all the colors of the universe, and then some. I find the path between the markers, and set upon that. What’s happened over the past two days is evil. It’s bad. It’s wrong. No true witch would consciously seek such power over others. Psychic vampires, yes. But Wicca is the way of the light, of good. It wasn’t one of ours, I promise you that.”

Taylor had to admit, Ariadne was at least partially right. She did see the world in black-and-white. It was how she slept at night.

“Okay,” she said, finally, “I can respect that.”

“Good. Then we can be friends.” Ariadne stuck out her hand, and Taylor shook it.

“You have a huge burden on your shoulders, Lieutenant. May I ease it for you?”

“What are you talking about?”

Ariadne waved toward the roses, toward Taylor. “There’s a storm brewing behind your eyes. You’re suffering, trying to make a major decision. On one hand is your true path. The other leads to pain and suffering. You’ll choose the correct path, and you already know which that is. But a sacrifice must be made. Use your strengths to divine your way.”

Fitz? Or Memphis. Who was the witch talking about? And where did she get off prophesying?

“My path. What do you know of my path? Of my responsibilities? Of the people I care for, and who care for me?”

Ariadne looked at her with sympathy. “It’s all written on your face, and in your aura, Lieutenant. And I may have done a tarot reading last night, just out of curiosity. If you give me your palm, I can direct you. The key to the occult is applying what works for you. You must seek your own truths.”

“‘Ariadne, now you’re getting into the silly stuff. Tarot cards and palm reading? Come on. Give me a break.”

She smiled, an impish grin. “Aren’t you the least bit curious, Lieutenant? Just the tiniest bit?”

“No, I’m not. I have absolutely zero desire to know what’s coming.”

Fitz flashed into her mind again, bloody, hurt. She couldn’t help but shut her eyes and swallow.

“I can tell you what will happen to him, if you want to know,” Ariadne said softly.

Taylor opened her eyes and stared into the deep blue of the witch’s soul. Yes, she probably could hazard a guess. She had a fifty-fifty chance of being right, too. There were only two outcomes for Fitz-life or death. Taylor didn’t know if she wanted to think about the possibility of the latter.

Ariadne didn’t budge, didn’t breath. They stood, locked in each other’s gaze, until Taylor broke away.

“He’s going to live,” Taylor said with finality, then swept from her office, leaving the witch behind.

Dear God, I hope I’m right.

Thirty-Seven

Northern Virginia

June 17, 2004

Charlotte

Charlotte watched Baldwin leave with the Fairfax County folks, then started her own walk through Harold Arlen^Js house. She was deeply unsettled by the whole incident. Arlen really had seemed sincere when he claimed he wasn’t responsible, that the photos on his computer were planted there. He admitted to looking at some porn now and again, but just looking. My God, he couldn’t have done anything, the shots took care of that. Where was the fun in that? He couldn’t explain how photos of the dead girls got on his computer-was in tears by the time they carted him off.

She could hear the storm getting closer, the thunder booming. There was a sense of urgency to everyone’s movements; dragging evidence through the wind and rain was the last thing they wanted. She could hear the muffled shouts of people trying to set up some sort of shelter between the crime-scene vans and the front door. Arlen was being transported-for the time being, she felt like she was practically alone with the man’s thoughts.

She went through his bedroom carefully. He was organized? methodical. Shirts in the closet were arranged according to color, and he only had white and blue long-sleeved button-downs. There were five pairs of chinos plus one empty hanger, three pairs of brown loafers. His bathrobe had been securely hung on the back of the bathroom door. His medicine cabinet had inconsequential items-shaving cream, aspirin, all the same brand, Kirkland, He did his shopping at Costco. The shower was clean, not a surprise. His house bespoke the worst about him-controlled, and controlling. Everything in its place. Another check mark on the profile.

Charlotte trailed through the house, looking at everything. The preternatural organization was evident in every room. Finding physical evidence was going to be tough- he was meticulous. And they needed the physical evidence to tie Arlen to the Clockwork Killer case. Somewhere in this house, there was a knife with a ten-inch blade, and ligatures, and some sort of bat or bar used to break the girls’ legs. The medical examiner had been relatively sure the girls had been lying down when their legs were broken, a rounded instrument used to crack their tibias and fibulas cleanly.

So where would he have done it? A bed? The floor? Some sort of table? Charlotte tried to get into Arlen’s mind. What would she do if she needed to restrain a young girl?

She shut her eyes and let the terror overwhelm her.

She would put her somewhere scary. In the dark. Away from any sort of light. With creepy, crawly things, rats and spiders and the cold, dark, dank air that signaled you were underground.

A memory rose unbidden to the surface. Her father, a tyrant on the best of days, locking her in the wine cellar below their house, punishment for some perceived transgression.

She shuddered at the thought, then went looking for Arlen’s basement.