Baldwin looked inside and was assaulted with a strong coppery smell. He held up his hand to signal that he didn’t want anyone else coming in the room, then flashed his Maglite through the door. The sight was grim.

He could see almost immediately that there was no one in the room. It was a small area, just large enough for a bed and a desk, the latter taken up with a battered old television. A door led off to the right and Baldwin could see the reflection of a toilet and tub in the mirror. He could see blood on the unmade bed, enough blood that his mind told him the story. If this was Christina Dale’s last-known resting place, she was most likely no longer with this world.

He looked back out into the parking lot at the expectant faces and shook his head to signal that she wasn’t in the room. He signaled to Grimes. “I need gloves and boots, and a crime scene tech to start collecting evidence. Do you have a camera in the car? We need to 220

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get some pictures of this.” Grimes went to the car and came back with a digital camera.

“You can use this for now. The tech should have his own, but I always carry this in a pinch.” He also handed Baldwin gloves and booties to cover his shoes, then put his own on. They were ready to see what had happened in the indifferent little room.

Baldwin took one step inside and felt the energy, a palpable mass that nearly took his breath away. Maybe because this was the first mobile killing site they had found, there was a different power to this crime scene—

a deeper sense of evil. He hoped they would be able to learn more about their killer, and his anticipation ran high. Many of the other members of Behavioral Science didn’t feel the necessity of physically being at a crime scene. They were meant to draw conclusions about personality types, not process an event off the ground. Baldwin had always felt differently. He found that being at the scene gave him an honest taste of the killer. Being in the same room helped him understand on a far deeper level what actually happened. Seeing the blood firsthand, tasting that coppery tang in the back of his throat, his eyes assailed by red, his olfactory senses working overdrive, gave him an overwhelming ability to know what the killer was thinking at the time he committed his crime. He shone the flashlight throughout the room, and then focused on the light switch at the door. He didn’t want to run the risk of destroying a possible print, so he decided to leave the light off and make do with his Maglite. He swept the beam back to the bed. The sheets were soaked with blood. He flashed the light around the walls—there was blood spray and droplets everywhere. The spray, the All the Pretty Girls

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copious blood—he’d changed his pattern, without a doubt. Christina had been alive while she was separated from her hands. Intuition told him that she was dead. The light took in the rest of the room. Something on top of the TV caught Baldwin’s eye. Carefully picking his way to the television, he read the note aloud without picking it up.

“She half enclosed me with her arms She pressed me with a weak embrace; And bending back her head, looked up, And gazed upon my face.

’Twas partly love, and partly fear, And partly ’twas a bashful art,

That I might rather feel, than see, The swelling of her heart.”

“My, he does love the classics,” Baldwin remarked, sliding the note into a plastic sleeve. “That one’s Coleridge. It’s called ‘Love.’” He glanced at Grimes and nodded, looking around the little room for any other signs. He saw none, so he backed carefully into the dusty courtyard. The rest would be up to the crime scene techs. He hoped they were good.

“I wonder if he had feelings for her,” Grimes asked.

“No, Grimes. He doesn’t have feelings that can be equated to love. She’s a pawn in his game. That’s all. The poems mean something to him. I don’t know if they’re supposed to mean anything to us. Let’s get this room processed, we need to see if we have anything that can link Christina Dale to the rest of the girls.”

They stepped into the clearing in the parking lot. 222

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Jones was holding court in the door to the office, a few locals had stepped onto the porch to exchange gossip with him. Lights were flashing, people were starting to crowd around. A deputy that Baldwin recognized from yesterday’s crime scene with Marni Fischer started winding yellow tape around anything he could find that would help form a barrier between the public and the law enforcement officials that were processing the scene.

As Baldwin watched the parade of action, a black SUV pulled up and he breathed a sigh of relief. Grimes hadn’t lost it completely, and had called in their own forensic team. The locals wouldn’t be allowed to touch anything, only the FBI would be handling evidence. There was just no sense in messing around. The dogs were next. They piled out of a dingy white pickup truck, a man in overalls and a John Deere cap herding them. There were two bloodhounds and a bluetick hound. Good trackers.

A deputy from the sheriff’s office had gone to Christina Dale’s home to check on her whereabouts when they’d first gotten the call that she hadn’t shown up for work. When she wasn’t to be found, the heads-up deputy grabbed a couple of pieces of her clothing. Knowing it was most likely futile, Baldwin watched as the dogs were given the clothing to smell. The handler stuck something cream colored under their noses and they whined and howled, straining on their leads, ready to go. The handler gave his commands and they were off. They ran about twenty yards to the east, baying, then slowed back to a walk, sniffing the ground, working in circles, growing more confused by the All the Pretty Girls

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minute. The handler looked at Baldwin and shrugged. He must have put her in a car. Not a big surprise. Baldwin looked around and felt the scene, despite the confusion, was out of his hands. It was time to find out more about the latest victim.

Twenty-Eight

The man was sweating. He was tired. It was hard work, getting a body in the right spot. But he was finished now, and he stepped back to admire his handiwork, rubbing his eyes with the sleeve of his shirt. Soon, he thought. Soon, it will be done and you will have everything you always dreamed of. You will have the world at your feet and I will be there with you. He smiled to himself and got back in the car. He had things to do. He chuckled. “And miles to go before I sleep. Oh yes, miles to go before I sleep.”

Twenty-Nine

Whitney Connolly’s home was in a stately neighborhood in Bellevue, an area jokingly referred to as West Belle Meade. Trees lined the streets, the homes were mostly two-story brick with large yards. Children played in the streets and backyards oblivious to the cares of the world; the sun shone its blessings on their cavorting.

Taylor drove slowly through the neighborhood, wondering if she should look at buying here. It was obviously filled with kids and the homes were gracious and large, much more space than she already had. She’d toyed with the idea of selling the cabin once or twice in the past. With Baldwin around, things were getting a little cramped. Maybe that was the key. Break all her own rules. Buy a house, move in together and let people get over it when they found out she was dating a fed. Hell, her team was discovering her secret and none of them seemed to have any issues with it. Maybe she was the problem; her own prejudices were getting in the 226

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way. There was no law on the books against having a boyfriend, after all.

She’d counted it up last night. They’d been together for four months—just enough time for the newness to begin wearing off. He’d never officially moved in with her, just stopped going to his own house. She’d never encouraged him to leave. They’d fallen into a pattern while she was rehabbing—he’d bring home dinner, they’d talk about their cases, they’d end up in bed. Idyllic. Nothing easier to ruin a good relationship than having to talk about it. She knew he felt it, too, there was no reason to go chasing after it.