‘Good luck,’ Boyle said, and slipped inside the ICU doors before they shut.

Boyle quickly took in his surroundings – the security cameras pointed at the desk, the medical equipment in the corner that monitored each of the ICU patients. Down at the far end of the corridor he saw the patrolman sitting in a chair set up in front of Rachel’s room. He wasn’t worried about the security cameras. He would change his appearance the next time he visited.

The nurse behind the counter was looking at him. ‘Can I help you?’

‘Could I have a box of Kleenex? My cousin’s rather upset.’

‘Of course.’

When the nurse reached behind her to grab a box of tissues, Boyle memorized the names on the clipboard holding the visitor sign-in sheet. He’d have to figure out a way to sign in without leaving fingerprints.

Boyle took the box of tissues, thanked her. ‘Which room is Mr Montgomery? I’d like to drop off some videos for him tomorrow.’

‘He’s in room twenty-two. Just make sure you bring VHS tapes. We don’t have DVD players in here.’

Boyle checked Montgomery’s room. It was three down from Rachel’s. Perfect.

Boyle walked out of the ICU and headed down the corridors. He dumped the box of tissues in a wastebasket.

As he waited for the elevator, he thought about Jennifer Montgomery. She was young. That was important. The younger ones could go the distance. The women in their late forties to early fifties didn’t last as long. He didn’t like bringing them home, but he had to take women of all ages, colors and sizes so the police wouldn’t make a connection. It was important to randomly select his victims. Boyle had studied police work. There were many books on such things, and there was the internet. Information was everywhere.

Boyle thought about the crime scene investigator, the redhead. He had never abducted someone from law enforcement before. That one was definitely a fighter. Like Rachel.

The elevator doors opened. Boyle slipped his hands inside his pant pockets, his fingers feeling around the lips of the plastic sandwich baggies holding the chloroform-soaked rags. He always carried them in case he decided to abduct someone while he was on the road; and he always carried a bag in each pocket since that night years ago when he grabbed a young girl at the home of the friend who had seen him in the woods –

He stopped walking. That red hair, those striking green eyes… No, it couldn’t be the same person.

Boyle pushed the thought aside. It would have to wait until he returned home. He went back to imagining all the wonderful things he could do with Jennifer Montgomery in his basement.

Chapter 17

Darby pulled behind the patrol car parked across the street from the Cranmore house. The street was eerily quiet. She had been expecting a media circus.

‘Where is everyone?’ Darby asked the patrolman dozing behind the wheel.

‘Downtown, at the press conference. Mother’s there, too.’

‘I’m going to take a look around.’

‘Shout if you need anything.’

Last night and early this morning, much of her time had been devoted to processing the house and the space underneath the porch. She had examined the outside area around the house with a flashlight and had failed to find anything.

Still, as she examined the ground and bushes, a part of her secretly hoped to find some overlooked piece of evidence that would break open the case. After two full sweeps, the only thing she had to show for her efforts was mud on her boots and pant cuffs.

Standing back in the driveway, next to the boyfriend’s car, she breathed away her frustration. The fading sunlight reflected a deep, dark red against the windows and puddles.

Okay, we know you pulled into the driveway and then entered the house, most likely using a key because there’s no evidence to suggest you tampered with the locks. You shot the boyfriend and then grabbed Carol and struggled briefly inside the kitchen door. Even though it was late, raining hard and thundering, you couldn’t risk dragging her kicking and screaming outside because it might wake someone up and call them to the window, so you knocked her unconscious before taking her out. You tossed Carol over your shoulder – it would be easier to move that way, and it would keep your hands free. Then you ran down the stairs to your van. You use a van because it can transport one or more bodies in privacy. You opened the back doors and put Carol inside, next to Jane Doe – only she wasn’t there.

Darby imagined Carol’s abductor running down the driveway, panicking, his head whipping around the sheets of driving rain as he searched for Jane Doe.

How far had he searched? And for how long? Did he drive around the streets looking for her? What made him decide to give up and go home?

Another thought hit her, causing Darby to reach for the notebook and pen tucked in her shirt pocket: What if he had stayed close by and saw Jane Doe being escorted out of the porch? What if he followed the ambulance? She made a note to tell Banville to increase security around Jane Doe.

Darby wondered about the intruder’s reaction when he learned Jane Doe had only been a few feet away, hiding behind the garbage barrels underneath the porch.

Why was Jane Doe in the van?

Possible answer: He was planning on getting rid of her because she was sick.

But where was he going to dump the body?

No, he wouldn’t dump the body. He’d bury it someplace where no one would find it. Was the plan to abduct Carol first and then bury Jane Doe somewhere in Belham?

Too risky. What if Carol woke up? If he had Carol, he’d want to bring her home.

Maybe he had changed his mind about burying Jane Doe and decided to abduct Carol instead.

Darby moved to the porch. The small white door was sealed with evidence tape. She pressed her forehead against the cool, damp wood.

I fooled him real good this time, Terry. I knew what he was going to do when he put me in the van, and I was ready.

A car door slammed. Darby turned and saw Dianne Cranmore marching up the driveway, a framed picture of her daughter clutched in one hand.

Dianne Cranmore was somewhere in her mid- to late thirties, with bleached hair and a round face heavy with makeup. She reminded Darby of the women she sometimes spotted in the nicer bars in Boston, women from Chelsea and Southie who fought hard to appear charming and sophisticated as they trolled for men who could transport them away from their crummy jobs and even crummier lives.

Carol’s mother spotted the badge dangling around Darby’s neck. ‘You’re with the crime lab,’ she said.

‘Yes.’

‘May I talk to you for a moment?’ The woman’s eyes were puffy and bloodshot from crying.

The patrolman Darby had talked to earlier was now standing in the driveway. ‘Miss Cranmore, why don’t we –’

‘I’m staying right here,’ Carol’s mother said. ‘I want to ask her some questions. I have a right to know what’s going on – and don’t you tell me again I don’t. I’m getting goddamn sick and tired of the way you people keep pushing me around.’

‘It’s okay,’ Darby told the patrolman. ‘Why don’t you give us a minute?’

The patrolman adjusted his cap and walked away.

‘Thank you,’ Carol’s mother said. ‘Now please tell me what’s going on with my daughter’s case.’

‘We’re conducting a thorough investigation.’

‘Which is police talk for “I’m not telling you jack shit.” My daughter is missing. My daughter. Doesn’t that mean anything to you people?’

‘Mrs Cranmore, we’re doing everything we can to find –’

‘Please, please, please don’t start in with that again. That’s all I’ve heard over the past twenty-four hours. Everyone’s working real hard, everyone’s chasing down leads – yes, I know all about it. I’ve answered all your questions, and now it’s my turn. You can start by telling me about the woman you found under my porch.’