SO SAVAGE

(A Faith Bold Mystery —Book Twenty-One)

B L A K E   P I E R C E

CONTENTS

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY SIX

EPILOGUE

PROLOGUE

“Go, Shadow.”

The German Shepherd shot off like a rocket. He stayed quiet and soon disappeared from view in the darkness. Master Sergeant Thomas Reeves silently counted to four. When he reached five, a light flashed in the distance, alerting him that Shadow had reached the target.

He smiled. Good boy, Shadow.

Another flash told him that Shadow had dropped the target, and then the dog barked loudly and enthusiastically to tell Reeves the exact same thing. A fine performance.

“To me, Shadow.”

He raised his voice a little, but less than he would need to for a human. Shadow’s hearing was far more sensitive, and as soon as his handler’s voice reached him, he released the target and bounded toward Thomas.

Thomas pointed to his side, and Shadow came to a stop exactly where he was told. He looked up at Thomas, and Thomas reminded him, “Be alert.”

Shadow’s eyes instantly trained outward, ready to identify and address any threat as soon as it revealed itself. Thomas reached down and ruffled his fur. “Good boy, Shadow. Good boy.”

The physical contact let Shadow know that the exercise was over. The affirmation let him know that he had done well. He wagged his tail and grinned up at Thomas, his eyes bright, and his lips pulled back from his teeth. The effect was gruesome and terrifying, but Thomas knew his dog well enough to know that the pup’s clumsy attempt to imitate a human expression of joy was done out of love and a desire to please his handler.

“All right, boy. Let’s go get something to eat. What do you say?”

Shadow barked his strong approval of that idea. Thomas laughed, ruffled his fur again, then started back toward the base’s central courtyard. Mess was closed for the day, and the commissary would be closed too, but there were vending machines that served a passable selection of pastries, packaged nuts, candy bars and chips along with the typical assortment of drinks both healthy and not-so-healthy. Georgia would be very displeased to discover that her forty-four-year-old husband still ate like a recruit, sneaking snacks in between drills.

“So we just won’t tell her, right, boy?”

Shadow wasn’t sure exactly what he was supposed to keep a secret, but he barked affirmatively. Thomas chuckled and ruffled the dog’s fur again. Shadow was seven years old and would be eligible for retirement in two years, one year after Thomas. That meant that he would have another handler for his final year in the Corps.

That cast a pall over Thomas’s mood, but he pushed it away. Combat had taught him to enjoy the good moments when they came without worrying about the bad moments that might come later. For now, Shadow was his dog, and he would enjoy every moment he could with him.

He got a candy bar with chocolate, nougat, and peanuts, a bag of roasted almonds, a lemon loaf, and a bottle of cola.

“Breakfast of champions, am I right?” he said to Shadow. Shadow cocked his head, and Thomas rolled his eyes. “Okay, fine. Dinner of champions.” He checked his phone. “Late night snack of champions. Well, whatever, you get the point.”

Shadow very much didn’t get the point, but his handler seemed satisfied, so he barked affirmative again.

Thomas grinned at him, then looked around. “Sure is quiet out here. Those National Guard boys have the life. You’d never catch a Marine Corps station this empty.”

Shadow looked around but didn’t find anything interesting. He looked at Thomas’s candy bar and fixed Thomas with a plaintive look.”

“Hell no,” Thomas said. “Chocolate’s not good for you, buddy.”

Shadow whined and tried again, this time pawing at the lemon loaf. Thomas chuckled. “No, but I’ll tell you what. Give me another good run, and I’ll buy you one of your own.”

Shadow barked enthusiastically and walked toward the door. He turned and whined toward Thomas, and Thomas got to his feet. “All right. I guess I’ll be saving the rest of my food for later.”

He headed for the door, reaching Shadow right outside the entrance. He expected his dog to rush forward again the moment he reached him, but instead, Shadow stayed where he was, looking into the darkness ahead and whining softly.

“What’s going on, boy?” Thomas asked. “You see something?”

He looked around, scanning the area ahead. He didn’t see anything, but that didn’t mean nothing was there.

“Smell something?” he asked Shadow.

Shadow whined and switched his tail back and forth. He took a hesitant few steps forward, put his nose to the ground, then barked and sprinted ahead.

Thomas started right behind him. “Shadow! Wait!”

Shadow barked in reply, and then a moment later, Thomas heard screeching. A pheasant jumped into the air, leaving behind a few feathers, now caught in Shadow’s teeth.

Thomas sighed. “All right, boy. You got him. Let’s try to focus on the task at hand now, okay?”

Shadow spit out the feathers and trotted to Thomas. When he reached his handler, he held his head high and sniffed the air.

“Uh uh. Enough of that. No more pheasants. One good run and I’ll buy you a chicken wing instead of a lemon loaf. Deal?”

Shadow looked at Thomas and dipped his head—the German Shepherd’s equivalent of a nod.

“Outstanding. Okay, Marine.”

He bent low and held the scent marker for target four in his hand. Shadow sniffed it for a few seconds, then barked to let Thomas know he had the scent. Thomas frowned. The bark wasn’t necessary. He was supposed to just make eye contact.

“Go, Shadow.”

Shadow shot off into the darkness again. After a few seconds, he began to bark loudly.

Thomas sighed. Maybe he was up too late. Dogs got tired, too.

Then the barking abruptly stopped, and fear jolted his spine. “Shadow? Come here, boy!”

There was no answer. Thomas’s blood froze. He’d heard of bears wandering onto bases before. He started jogging toward his dog. “Shadow? Shadow! Shad—”

A sharp pain hit his neck. He winced and brushed it, coming into contact with a feathered dart.

His eyes widened. He turned in the direction the dart had come from and saw a shadow—not his dog—standing a few yards off. He reached for his gun, but he was unconscious before he cleared the leather.

CHAPTER ONE

“Go get ‘em, Turk!”

Turk leaped from Faith’s side like a rocket, barking exuberantly. The wild turkeys leaped into the air, stumbled, then leaped again. Slowly, they righted themselves, taking to the sky just before Turk reached them. Turk stopped and wagged his tail, watching as they flew fifty yards away before landing and shaking their ruffled feathers. Faith grinned and waved at the birds, who looked at her indignantly before pointedly ignoring the pair.

Turk coiled up, ready to chase them again, but Faith waved him off. “We’d better leave it at that,” she said. “But at least we got their blood moving. Come on. Let’s get back before Eddie finishes all of the cobbler.”

The two of them trudged through the snow toward Faith’s Crown Victoria. The snow was a foot thick and sat atop a layer of ice, but the roads were plowed and salted, so there was no loss of traction. She had winter tires anyway. It never hurt to be careful. The Crown Vic was a robust vehicle, but it was definitely not in its natural element in snow and ice. There was snow in Philly, but the storms here were a different thing altogether.

Overall, she liked Sunrise Beach. It was a quiet little town—in the winter, at least—and it was nice to see Eddie again. She texted her cousin from time to time, but she hadn’t actually seen him since he visited her in the hospital after her run-in with Jethro Trammell, the infamous Donkey Killer whose short but vicious career had kickstarted a wave of violence across the nation and separated Faith’s life into two very distinct phases: Before Trammell and After Trammell.

She wasn’t here to think about that, though. She was here to not think about that. In fact, Special Agent Faith Bold was very specifically instructed not to think about work at all. She was laying low and letting other people handle the job of catching serial killers.

A job much easier said than done when there was yet another crazed murderer terrorizing the people of Philadelphia, and that murderer—like another murderer now currently awaiting a retrial—was for some reason obsessed with Faith.

She sighed and gave Turk a wry smile. “I’m not doing a very good job of being on vacation, am I?”

Turk cocked his head. From his perspective, they were having a wonderful vacation. Snow to play in, turkeys to play with, plenty of delicious food to eat… what wasn’t to love?

She chuckled and patted his rump. “Go on, boy. In the car.”

Turk jumped into the passenger seat, and Faith got into her side and started the engine. The car roared to life, and Faith began the five-mile journey back to Eddie’s cabin.

The landscape really was beautiful. The snow was thick, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t pretty. Drifts coated the branches of the trees, and the occasional deer moved through it, a picture-perfect image that could grace the cover of any album of the American winter.

The Lake of the Ozarks—jewel of the Midwest—glistened in the pale winter sun, and despite the literally freezing weather, Faith wasn’t surprised to see several boats on the water. Tourist season was over, but despite their genial hatred of that breed, the locals were more than crazy enough to make up for the absence of the out-of-towners.

The last half-mile of the drive was on dirt, which meant it was on snow. Since the Crown Vic was rear-wheel-drive and not four-wheel-drive, she had to gun the engine and use a combination of momentum and wheelspin to make it up the hill into Eddie’s driveway. She skidded the last few feet and came to a rest mere inches from plowing the nose of her car into the cab of Eddie’s old Ranger pickup.

She released a sigh of relief and walked into the house. The smell of apple turnovers blanketed her, and she closed her eyes and sighed. “I take it you finished the cobbler.”

“Yup,” Eddie called back. “So I’m making apple turnovers as a peace offering.”

“Eddie, you’re a lifesaver.”

“Coming from a real lifesaver, that means something,” Eddie replied. “Have a seat. I’m making leg of lamb, too.”

“How on Earth are you not married?” Faith asked.

“Still waiting for the right man, I guess,” Eddie replied. “In the meantime, I get to spoil my baby cousin.”

“And your baby cousin very much appreciates it,” Faith said.

Turk trotted up to Eddie and laid his head affectionately against his leg. Eddie reached down with a meaty hand and scratched the lucky pup underneath his chin.

Eddie was a tall, burly mountain of a mountain man with a thick, luxurious beard, hands the size of watermelons and enough muscle mass to win him the amateur powerlifting competition for the Lake of the Ozarks five years running. He flashed Faith a boyish smile that belied his intimidating presence. “I got a call from Pearl. She says she saw you and Turk terrorizing some turkeys off of Highway F.”

“Was that the word she used? Terrorizing?”

“That was the word. I reminded her—as I am now reminding you—that the turkeys are far more dangerous to you than you are to them. She seemed somewhat appeased, but in the interest of full disclosure, I think she’d be a lot happier if the two of you disappeared in a puff of smoke.”

Faith chuckled. “I don’t blame her. We are tourists, after all, and we’re here after NFT day.”

No Fucking Tourists day was a celebratory occasion when locals gathered to drink and make merry in celebration of the fact that there were—as the name suggested—no more fucking tourists. The restaurant Eddie managed threw one of the more memorable parties for NFT day, attracting nearly everyone from Sunrise Beach. The town only had a population of around five hundred, but that was a lot to cram into one lake house restaurant.

“Speaking of something tangentially related,” Eddie said, “Junior’s birthday party is tonight, so when we’re done pregaming here, we should go to the restaurant and get drunk.”

“One of us should get drunk,” Faith corrected. “One of us should remain sober to drive home.”

“Sure,” Eddie replied cheerily. “Of course.”

Before Faith could retort, her phone buzzed. Michael. “One second,” she told Eddie. “I’ve gotta take this.”

“Boyfriend?”

“Boy space friend.”

“So you’re just banging him, but there’s no romance.”

“No, he’s my partner.”

“See, that still sounds like you’re banging him.”

She rolled her eyes. “Business partner. Maybe you should go to the party by yourself and get laid so you can stop making everything about sex.”

“From your mouth to God’s ears,” Eddie agreed.

Faith laughed and answered the phone. “Hey, Michael. What’s up?”

“Are you alone?”

Faith’s smile faded. “I can be. Is this serious?”

“Yes.”

Her smile vanished entirely. She got to her feet and stepped onto the deck. Eddie raised a questioning eyebrow, and she shook her head.

When she was outside, she asked, “What’s going on, Michael?”

“Before I tell you, you need to promise to let me finish before you get angry with me.”

“Michael, I swear to God, if you don’t tell me what’s—”

“I talked to West.”

That stunned Faith into silence. If there was anyone in Faith’s life who’d had a more profound and more negative impact than Jethro Trammell, it was Dr. Franklin West. The so-called psychologist had seen Faith for months after the Trammell incident. During that time, he’d also been copying Trammell’s M.O. and improving on it successfully enough that he was able to kill over thirty victims and remain active more than four times as long as Trammell.

At long last, his obsession with Faith had proven to be his undoing. He’d attacked Faith in her apartment, and Faith had arrested him with the help of two officers from the Philadelphia Police Department. He was now awaiting trial after his first trial had ended in a hung jury. Hung because some jurors believed that Faith had exceeded her authority as an FBI agent and compromised the investigation. That was a big part of why she was off the grid in the first place. The other part was that the killer after her now—the Messenger Killer—was also obsessed with her.

She found her voice. “Why?”

“I was following up on the hypothesis that the Messenger is actually motivated by admiration for West instead of blind obsession with you. I think that she’s trying to impress him, and that’s why she’s murdering people and trying to attack you psychologically. The difference is that while West made Jethro’s MO more sophisticated and the psychological torture more subtle, the Messenger is more blunt and messier.”

“Okay… you talked to West, and what?”

“And it seems that someone’s been sending him love letters.”

“Love letters? Like Hybristophilia?”

“Like what?”

“Like she’s attracted to him because he’s a criminal. It’s a fairly common phenomenon. Ted Bundy supposedly received hundreds of letters from admirers after conviction.”

“Well, I don’t think West’s pulling the same kind of attention, but the attention he’s getting is pretty damned interesting.”

“What is it?”

There’s a woman who signs her letters as L. She writes West frequently, several letters a week. A lot of them are the typical smut bullshit you write someone when you want them, but hidden in a few of them are comments about you and how you deserve to die for humiliating him like that.”

Faith frowned. “Were there any descriptions of victims or crime scenes?”

“No, nothing like that, but one note said that she was planning to do something to get your attention and draw you out into the open where she could make you pay for humiliating him.”

“And you got this from West?”

“I got him to admit he was receiving notes and got the notes from the warden.”

She nodded. “And he didn’t say anything? Nothing that suggests that he might be behind this?”

“No. Honestly, he seemed defeated.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Is that so?”

“Oh yeah. He wore the smarmy façade, but he was all over the place. It was like he was desperate to show me how much smarter he was than me.”

 “Yeah, that sounds like West, all right.”

“You’d know better than me. Still, I’m pretty confident West isn’t behind this. I shook down my warden friend again, but he swears up and down that he’s only received letters for West, not delivered letters for him. I’m inclined to believe him.”

“Fair enough. So, have you figured out where these letters are coming from?”

“No. That’s what I’m going to work on next.”

“And the brass is okay with you working on this?”

The pause that followed gave Faith her answer. She sighed. “Michael, thank you for helping me. I really appreciate it. But I don’t want you getting in trouble. Turn the info over to Desrouleaux and let them handle it.”

“They’re going to take forever on this,” Michael protested. “I can get answers now.”

“No. Absolutely not. I need you to advocate for me. If you burn your bridges with Gardner and Smythe, I’ll have no one on my side.”

“I’ll be fine, Faith,” he insisted. “But I can’t let this prick keep getting away with it.”

“Michael—” her phone buzzed, interrupting her. It was Tabitha Gardner.

She raised an eyebrow. ASAC Tabitha Gardner—the interim head of the Philadelphia Field Office after the murder of SAC Grant Monroe by the very same prick to whom Michael referred—did not like Faith. In her last case—an unassigned and unauthorized assistance of a killing spree in Indianapolis—Gardner had stopped just short of saying that she was trying to get Faith fired.

Maybe she had finally succeeded.

Faith answered. “Hello?

In a clipped voice, Tabitha said, “Special Agent Bold, you and your K9 are assigned to a case in Duluth, Minnesota. I’ll send you the files.”

She hung up before Faith could respond, leaving her to digest what had just happened. A case? She was back on duty?

She unmuted Michael. “Hey, Michael. I got a case.”

“A case? Really?”

“Really, really. Just talked to the ASAC.”

“That’s wonderful!”

“It’s good news,” she agreed. “And very surprising. And I suspect that she was pressured to do this by Smythe. She hung up before I could say anything, and all she said was that she was sending me the files.”

“Well, good news loves company. See? There’s nothing to worry about. We’re both making progress. Give us enough time, and we’ll have the whole country cleaned up.”

“Michael, stay away from this. You will lose your career. Look, I’m grateful for your help, but…”

“You’re my partner,” he interrupted. “And I’m going to help you. You’ve risked losing your career many times, and if our positions were reversed, this wouldn’t even be a conversation. You’d tell me you were going to do this, and you wouldn’t listen to any protests from me.”

“Yes, but Michael—”

“Goodbye, Faith. I’ll call you when I have something new to report.” In a softer voice, he added, “Don’t worry about me, okay? I’m a lot more sly than you give me credit for.”

He also hung up without waiting for Faith’s response. She looked at Turk, who wagged his tail and looked up at her with big brown eyes. “Looks like we’ll have to take a rain check on that party, Turk.”

Eddie raised his eyebrows. “Got your job back?”

“Seems that way,” Faith said.

“Well, congratulations!”

That might be a bit premature.

She didn’t share that thought. She only smiled and thanked her cousin, then left to pack her bags.

CHAPTER TWO

Faith reviewed the files on the flight to Duluth. The M.O. was fairly straightforward. Intravenous sedation via a tranquilizer dart, murder by slitting the carotid arteries. Nothing to jump out of the page at her.

The connections between the victims definitely jumped out at her. The victims were two military K9 handlers, Master Sergeant Thomas Reeves, USMC and Staff Sergeant Kevin Walsh, US Army. Both of them were found dead, but interestingly, their dogs were alive, sedated using the same tranquilizer as the victims but not harmed in any other way.

Two K9 handlers murdered, their dogs sedated but alive. That was a cause for concern. Faith wasn’t a K9 handler when she was in the Marine Corps, but she was a K9 handler now, and she relied on Turk for a lot of things, not the least of which was apprehending suspects and providing her with a level of protection. This killer was apparently competent at disabling K9s and killing their handlers.

She wished Michael were here with her. Despite a slight softening around his middle since marrying Ellie, he was damned good in a fight both armed and unarmed.

She smiled slightly, imagining a phone call where she told Michael that she needed him to come protect her. She would never live that down.

That smile faded when she remembered their phone call earlier. Michael was putting himself in serious danger, pursuing the Messenger case. Not only was he putting his career at risk, but he was also putting his life at risk. Grant Monroe might have been older, but he was still a dangerous son of a bitch, and this killer had taken him out almost effortlessly.

It was a little ironic that only a minute earlier, she had wanted Michael here to protect her. Now, she wanted to be back home to protect him.

The part about talking to West worried her too. Michael was probably right that West wasn’t directly involved with the Messenger, but if he didn’t know about her earlier—assuming this fangirl of his was the killer—then he knew now. If this admirer was the killer, then she would be vulnerable to West’s suggestions. Faith knew very well how persuasive West could be and how difficult it was to shake off his psychological hold.

And West knew a lot about Faith and a lot about Michael. Faith was out of town, which might protect her, but her boyfriend David still lived in Philadelphia, and West had gone after him before. Michael and his wife Ellie—who happened to be West’s ex-wife—lived in the city too.

Her stomach lurched. It might not matter if Michael took an active role in this case. If West was corresponding with the Messenger, then they might be in danger anyway. In fact, Michael’s attention to the case might actually help protect them.

She sighed and looked at Turk, except Turk was in the baggage hold, so instead she looked at the lap of the passenger next to her. The owner of that lap—a middle-aged woman whose resting expression appeared to be a stern frown—raised her eyebrows.

Heat climbed Faith’s cheeks. She muttered an apology and turned back to the files.

She would have to let Michael run with the Messenger case for now. Unless she wanted to go AWOL and return to Philadelphia to help him as a civilian, she needed to focus on this case. Hopefully, things would go well. She could raise her stock with Deputy Director Smythe, and she could maybe convince him to let her work on the Messenger case. Then they wouldn’t have to sneak around anymore, and then they could finally put West and his legacy to rest.

Still, the image of his taunting smile lurked in her mind as her flight began its descent into Duluth, as did the words he’d repeated as a mantra during his torment of her.

Remember, Faith. I will break you.

***

It was dark and freezing cold when Faith and Turk landed in Duluth. The winters she’d experienced thus far were relatively mild. There was nothing mild about Duluth. A sign at the airport told Faith that the outside temperature was six degrees Fahrenheit, and she believed it.

Thank God I packed warm clothes.

They were met at baggage claim by a tall, burly man who looked more like a football player than a police officer. He introduced himself as Detective Marcus Waring and offered Faith a hand that looked big enough to palm a pumpkin.

Looks like I’ll have all the protection I need.

Marcus frowned when he saw Turk, but Faith guessed that had more to do with the nature of their victims than a dislike of dogs, a fact confirmed when he used another massive hand to scratch Turk briefly behind the ear.

“Car’s waiting outside,” he told them in a voice that sounded like distant thunder echoing through a canyon. “Do you have gloves?”

Faith showed him her wool gloves, and his frown deepened. “We’ll stop for something on the way out.”

They stopped at a clothing outlet in the airport and bought a pair of thick, waterproof gloves and a snow hat that looked like something a sled driver would wear. Faith felt like she was in a cocoon when they left the airport.

The moment she stepped outside, she was grateful for the extra protection. “Damn. Sure is toasty outside.”

Marcus returned a polite smile, then led them to a police truck fitted with snow tires. Once inside, he pulled smoothly out of the airport, seemingly unaffected by the frozen pavement.

“Have you reviewed the information for the case?” he asked her.

“I read the files my superior gave me,” she replied. “Two victims, Master Sergeant Thomas Reeves, killed four days ago at the National Guard base, and Staff Sergeant Kevin Walsh, killed last night at the US Army Reserve base. Both sergeants and their K9s were sedated using tranquilizer darts fired from a rifle-based weapon. The darts were 1cc and fired from an estimated distance of sixty-five yards. They contained ketamine and xylazine and were dosed specifically for the targets.”

Faith raised an eyebrow. “How specifically?”

“Within a few milligrams of the correct dose. Not close enough that the killer knew the exact weight of his targets, but close enough that he was well within the ballpark.”

“So he might have known them.”

“Perhaps. It’s possible he could have just seen them and guessed the weight accurately. Ketamine is a fairly forgiving anesthetic. It has a fairly wide range of effectiveness, and if you have at least a basic understanding of how the drug works, you won’t cause an overdose unless you try. Also, I’m sure you agree, but I should point out that we don’t know yet if the killer is a female or a male.”

Faith nodded understanding. “So did the victims die of an overdose? Did the throat-slitting occur post-mortem?”

“No, the cause of death was the severing of the carotid arteries.”

“That’s good to know,” Faith replied. She grimaced a little at her word choice. “Important to know. Were they conscious when they were killed?”

“No. He sedated them and cut their throats while they were still asleep.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Interesting. Is there any sign of sexual assault?”

“No. The murders were almost businesslike. We don’t think the killer spent any more time with them than he needed to.”

“So he wanted to see them die but didn’t need to see the fear in their eyes.”

“Is that unusual with serial killers?” Marcus asked.

“It’s unusual with the up-close and personal ones when there’s no sexual compulsion. Often, serial killers will sedate their victims if they intend a sexual assault prior to murdering them, but if they’re just killing them, they usually want them awake to see the light fade from their eyes.”

Marcus grimaced, and she added, “It’s brutal, I know, but that’s why I’m here. Speaking of, it would probably be best if my involvement was kept quiet. I understand it’s not possible to completely hide me, but if you could at least keep my name out of the media.”

“Yes, your superior mentioned that. I understand there’s been some trouble with a case back east involving a serial killer who was once obsessed with you.”

Faith’s lips thinned. “I would prefer not to talk about it.”

“Of course. I didn’t mean to offend.”

“None taken.”

Faith frowned. “It just occurred to me. Why isn’t Military Police handling this?”

“They were, but we now have two victims from two different branches. The MP units couldn’t agree on who should be in charge, so they called us as a neutral organization, and we called the FBI since the exotic nature of these crimes justifies your involvement.”

Faith cocked her head. “Is this really exotic, though? It’s not normal to have a killer sedate his victims with tranquilizer darts, but there’s nothing else really unusual.”

“Not on the surface, no,” Marcus agreed, “But I would really rather not wait for a third victim to cross our t’s. Duluth handles murders, and I have experience with those cases, but not with someone who seems to have an established M.O. and a preferred target profile. Those are also indications that we’re dealing with a serial killer.”

“Yes,” Faith agreed.

Technically, the killer was a spree killer since the concentration of deaths in a short amount of time fit the FBI’s differential criterion for a spree killer versus a serial killer, but since the Donkey Killer case, the terms had more or less merged to describe anyone who killed multiple victims with an established and organized M.O. and a preferred profile.

Finding that preferred profile was usually the difficult part, but here it was easy. Someone was targeting K9 handlers. The question was, why these particular handlers?

Faith reached back and scratched Turk under his jaw. “Someone’s coming after our own, boy. It’s up to us to stop them.”

Turk dipped his head in acknowledgment. His eyes wore a serious expression, almost as though he knew that the threat they were facing could by its very nature be greater than any they’d experienced so far.

And he was just as determined as Faith was to put an end to it.

CHAPTER THREE

The US Army Reserve Center was a small property on the shores of Lake Superior. It contained two central collections of buildings and a one-acre grass field with a dirt track encircling it. Marcus parked the truck next to that field and led Faith into the nearest building. “Staff Sergeant Walsh was found in that field along with his dog this morning. His body was frozen solid, and the dog was nearly there.”

“So he would have had to be dead for several hours,” Faith surmised.

Marcus chuckled. “No, not in this cold. He could have frozen within thirty minutes. The real miracle is that his dog didn’t freeze.”

The two of them walked inside and found a young female officer who couldn’t be more than twenty-five talking to a desk sergeant who appeared about five years older. Both of them looked exhausted and stressed, an understandable state of mind given what had happened to them only the night before.

The officer looked up at them and told the desk sergeant, “I’ll be unavailable for a little while unless it’s General Hollis. Then I’ll try to be unavailable, but you know how it goes.”

“Yes, ma’am,” the desk sergeant replied.

The officer approached the two investigators and extended her hand. “Good evening. I’m First Lieutenant Rebecca Torres. I was Walsh’s platoon commander.”

“Pleased to meet you, Lieutenant Torres,” Faith replied. “I’m sorry for your platoon’s loss.”

Torres’s lip trembled slightly. Maybe this was more than a professional loss for her. She maintained her composure well, though, and gestured for them to follow her outside.

“It was his turn for night security,” she explained. “He elected to bring Rooster with him on patrol. I left for home at nine p.m. and returned at six a.m. There were coyotes in the field, so I figured they’d brought a deer down, but when I walked over to chase them off, I discovered…” Her breath hitched. “I discovered his body.”

“Where was Rooster?” Marcus asked. “I’m assuming that was his dog?”

“Yes. Is his dog. He survived. Rooster was ten yards away, hidden in some thick grass. I’m not sure why the coyotes didn’t notice him. Kevin—Sergeant Walsh—was so frozen that the coyotes couldn’t even bite into him. They would have made a good meal of Rooster. Not that I’m upset that they didn’t eat him. I just wasn’t sure why they picked him. I don’t know if it matters or not.”

“It’s possible they were just getting started when you arrived,” Marcus offered. “They might have made their way to Rooser if you hadn’t shooed them off.”

Turk trotted toward the crime scene. The snow had been cleared away, leaving a crater behind that looked like the remnant of a small meteor landing. “The snow was cleared because of the blood, I’m assuming?” Faith asked.

“Yes,” Torres confirmed. “From what I understand, there was no blood besides Sergeant Walsh’s and no DNA from the killer.”

“What about footprints?” Marcus asked.

“It was snowing when Sergeant Walsh was killed,” Torres replied, “so there were no footprints here, but there were some left behind when Master Sergeant Reeves was killed. You’re looking for a man wearing a size twelve standard-issue Army combat boot.”

“Does that fit anyone in your unit, Lieutenant?”

“Sure does. Seven of my soldiers wear a size twelve. All seven of them have confirmed alibis. It was my platoon sergeant’s birthday last night. I saw all of them there.”

Turk trotted over to the clump of taller grass that poked through the snow. He lowered his nose and sniffed, but Faith didn’t catch a reaction that suggested he had found anything useful. She wondered if the killer had used something to mask his scent. Presumably the K9s would have detected him from a distance if he hadn’t, unless he managed to stay downwind of them the entire time.

“Did you notice any changes in Sergeant Walsh’s behavior recently?” Faith asked.

“No, nothing new. He was the same serious, dedicated man I knew him to be when I met him.” She shook her head. “I can’t imagine why anyone would want to hurt him. He was strict, but he had his soldiers’ backs. He had everyone’s back. He was the man who was first in and last out in any combat situation.”

“Did your unit deploy recently?”

“No, but Sergeant Walsh was a recent addition. He was active duty up until last year, He came to us with a silver star that he’d earned by saving his company commander’s life and carrying him under fire to an evac helicopter at great risk to his own life.”

“He sounds like a good man,” Marcus replied.

“He was. The best man I ever knew.”

Turk snorted in irritation and trotted back to the three of them. “Nothing, huh?” Faith asked.

He snorted and whined irritably. She bent low and ruffled his fur. “That’s all right, boy. We’ll get him.” She straightened and asked Torres, “Do you mind if we head inside to talk? I’m not quite used to this cold.”

“You don’t get used to this kind of cold,” Torres replied.

She led them back into the building. The desk sergeant greeted them with three cups of coffee. Torres nodded to her. “You’re a lifesaver, Kent.”

Kent returned a half-smile that didn’t last long. Faith recognized that look. She was thinking about the life she hadn’t been able to save.

Torres took them into a small office that contained a particle board desk and two metal-frame chairs with vinyl cushions. Faith smiled wryly. Trust Uncle Sam to spare no expense for its platoon commanders. Actually, this office was fairly luxurious compared to the offices of most LTs Faith had known. Maybe the Reserves got better equipment.

Marcus started the interview. “You said you’d known Marcus for just about a year, Lieutenant Torres?”

“Yes, sir. He joined the platoon thirteen months ago.”

“And you’ve had no complaints about him from anyone?”

She shook her head and said firmly, “No. Everyone loved him.”

“And you haven’t noticed any suspicious behavior from Walsh or anyone else on your unit.”

“No. Everything was just the same as it was any other day.”

“How familiar are you with Walsh’s personal life?” Faith asked.

Torres smiled sadly. “I was most of that personal life.” She glanced at the window of her office door, probably to make sure that Sergeant Kent wasn’t listening. “The military frowns on relationships between officers and their subordinates for obvious reasons. Good reasons. But… that didn’t stop us.”

Faith raised an eyebrow. “So you were romantically involved with Sergeant Kent?”

Torres nodded. “We started dating seven months ago. We’d been attracted to each other since we met, but we both tried to avoid an entanglement. Then we just so happened to end up stuck here one night during a thunderstorm, and… well, tale as old as time, I guess.”

“And you’re sure no one was aware of your relationship?”

“Oh, they knew. The Army Reserve isn’t as tightly run as the active Army. We’re only committed to one weekend a month here and two weeks of annual training when we’re not on deployment.”

“How often do you deploy?”

“Honestly, most of us never have. With the reduction in US military action, most of us will never see combat. I’ve been with the Reserve for three years, and I’ve never been deployed. Most of the unit hasn’t either.”

Faith sighed. She was trying to figure out who Sergeant Walsh might have interacted with who would want to kill him, but it seemed like she wasn’t going to get a good answer. She tried another tack. “What was Walsh’s job when he wasn’t fulfilling his duties to the Army?”

“He was a special case. He was a reservist whose day job was as a civilian contractor training K9 units.”

Now they were getting somewhere. “Could he have met Master Sergeant Reeves through that work?”

She nodded. “Yes, actually. Walsh and Reeves were both part of a review board that assessed training and working standards for Army K9 units.”

“When?”

“Four months ago.”

“Can you get me a list of people present at that event?” Faith asked.

“I can try,” Torres replied. “I’ll let the brass know the severity of the situation and see if they’ll get me what I need.”

“Do it. It’s possible that our killer was present at that event.”

“Was anyone else here last night?” Marcus asked.

Torres shook her head. “No. We’re a small reserve center. We’ve never had any kind of trouble here at all. No trespassing, no thefts, no assault… nothing.”

Marcus nodded, clearly disappointed. He stood and Faith followed suit. “Thank you for your time, Lieutenant. If you can think of anything else, please let us know.”

He handed her a business card and started for the door. “Actually,” Faith interjected, “I have one more question. Do you know where Rooster is right now?”

“Yes. We have a contract with Dr. Joanna Parker to examine all of our K9 units here. Right now, that’s just Rooster. He’s at her office for observation.”

“Can you give me her office address?”

“Sure thing, but she won’t be in the office tonight.”

Faith considered calling the doctor to see if she’d meet her there, but it was getting late, and she could feel fatigue creeping in. It would be better for both her and Turk to get some rest and attack the case with fresh minds in the morning. “That’s all right. I’ll see her first thing in the morning.”

Torres wrote the address down and handed it to Faith. Tears welled in her eyes, and her voice shook a little. “I just can’t believe someone would do this. It doesn’t make sense to me.”

Murders like this rarely made sense to anyone but killers and the people trained to catch them, but telling Torres that wouldn’t be helpful. So Faith only said, “We’ll do everything we can to find the person responsible and bring them to justice.”

Torres nodded. “I know. I’m just worried it won’t be enough.”

That’s every day of my life, Faith thought.

The three of them returned to the truck. The temperature had fallen by about ten degrees since Faith had arrived, and even the thick clothing she wore wasn’t enough to stop the chill that bit through to her bones.

She wondered what the last moments of Walsh’s and Reeves’s life were like. Had they stayed conscious long enough to realize what was happening to them? Had they felt the cold seeping through to their bones as their lifeblood drained away?

Maybe they’d gotten lucky. Maybe they had fallen asleep before they had a chance to feel what was happening. It was a thin and rather dull silver lining, but it was better than nothing.

Marcus drove them to a modest but comfortable hotel in Chester Park, a college community that served the University of Minnesota Duluth campus. Unlike most college towns Faith had visited, there were no raucous parties or reckless drivers present tonight. The cold kept everyone inside where they could be safe from the ravages of winter.

Meanwhile, a predator roamed the snow looking for those brave few who trusted in themselves and their dogs to protect them. This was truly a case where the hunters had become the hunted.

Faith was a hunter herself and confident that she and Turk could face any threat that came their way. But then again, so were Reeves and Walsh, and they had fallen easily.

Faith feared that the two of them might have met their match.

CHAPTER FOUR

Dr. Parker’s practice was located just south of the hotel near a small lakeside park. Marcus met Faith in the lobby of her hotel at five-forty-five in the morning so they could reach the office when it opened at six.

The practice, like the Army Reserve Center, was cozy and modest, nestled in between a pet store and an adoption center. Very smart business planning. Adopt a pet, take it to the vet, and buy it food and supplies all in the same day.

Most of the city Faith had seen so far was laid out like that. It wasn’t spread out like a suburb or empty like a rural area. The properties were close together, and there weren’t very many open spaces, but the buildings were small to medium size, and the crowds were light and manageable.

She could see herself retiring somewhere like this. Maybe not somewhere so cold, but a medium-sized city like Duluth that didn’t have the kind of traffic a metropolis like Philadelphia did but had services more conveniently available than a small town. She’d thought about a small Midwest town with wide-open spaces, but she had a feeling that the idea of living somewhere with open-air “freedom” was more appealing than the reality.

Not that she had any plans to retire anytime soon. Turk was a working dog, and she would keep him working as long as she could and stay in the FBI at least until he was done. Still, the end would come for her eventually. She didn’t have the right makeup for leadership, and she wasn’t enough of a rule-follower to go into training. She couldn’t handle a desk job, so analyst was out of the question.

That left field agent. Maybe she could be a field agent for the next twenty years. Other agents had done it. Desrouleaux was nearing his twenty-second anniversary with the Bureau, and Michael was within shouting distance of his twentieth. She was already at twelve years and counting.

But being a field agent without Turk? She wasn’t sure if she could do that. She couldn’t imagine ever having another working dog. She was realistic enough to know that she’d probably get another dog after Turk died, but that dog would strictly be a pet. It would be too hard to work a case with another dog and not wish it was Turk.

Marcus parked the truck, and Faith pulled her mind back to the present as they walked into the office. The doctor herself was busy when they arrived but promised to see them as soon as she was finished with her patient.

“Is Dr. Parker always busy this early in the morning?” Faith asked the receptionist, a bubbly young woman of maybe twenty who beamed at Faith with an attitude far too perky for six in the morning.

“Patients often schedule their pets early in the morning for routine checkups and quick procedures,” she replied. “That way they can finish everything before work and not ruin their weekend.”

“God forbid they ruin their weekends,” Marcus said drily.

Indeed, the waiting room was full. Faith counted six cats and ten dogs waiting to be seen. “These are all for Dr. Parker?”

“Most of them will see her assistant or one of the veterinary nurses,” the receptionist said. “It really depends on what they’re here for.”

“Do you know when the last time she saw Rooster before today was?”

The receptionist frowned. “I don’t believe she treats any roosters.”

Before Faith could explain, the door opened, and Dr. Parker said, “Okay, Detective Waring, I can see the two of you now.”

Faith and Marcus followed the short, rotund Dr. Parker into an office that was even smaller than Lieutenant Torres’s in addition to being piled nearly floor to ceiling with boxes of paperwork and more paperwork stacked on top of that.

“We’re in the process of transitioning all of our records to an electronic format,” Dr. Parker informed them. “I tried to get a jump on that while my IT guy is on vacation, but I am very much not competent enough to do that, so I’ll have to wait until he comes back.” She sighed and ran her hands through messy curls of hair. “Anyway, you didn’t need to know all of that. You two are here about Rooster’s handler.”

“Yes,” Faith replied. “We were wondering if you noticed anything during your examination that might help us in our investigation.”

“Oh, absolutely,” Dr. Parker replied. “I found something very interesting.”

Faith’s ears perked up. “Do tell.”

“So the tranquilizing agents are ketamine and xylazine. That’s pretty standard for large canids. It’s considered a fast-acting sedative too, but fast-acting is relative. Typical time of onset is two to three minutes.”

Faith shared a look with Marcus. Two to three minutes was fine if you were anesthetizing a wild animal for research in the field. Not so fine if you were trying to murder two NCOs.

“So there’s a third chemical that shortens the time of onset,” Faith guessed.

“Yes. An extremely fast-acting serotonin antagonist and reuptake inhibitor. In its pure form, this particular SARI can sedate a dog within ten minutes. However, the sedative effect is mild, certainly not enough to overcome the stress of watching their handler get murdered. But when combined with ketamine, the time of onset decreases to less than one minute, and the sedative effect of both drugs is multiplied. Ketamine and xylazine typically only puts a dog down for twenty or thirty minutes. In Rooster’s case, he was unconscious for over eight hours.”

Marcus whistled. “That’s a long time.”

“Yes, it is. Ironically, though, the strength of the sedative might have saved his life because it lowered his heart rate and slowed his metabolism so that he suffered far fewer ill effects from the cold than he would have otherwise.”

“Thank God for small blessings.”

“What about the darts?” Faith asked. “Anything distinguishing about them?”

Parker sighed again. “I’m afraid not. They’re manufactured by Hydro-Dart, along with nearly every tranquilizer dart used on the planet. The delivery mechanism was a gas-powered dart gun. Without the gun itself, I can’t tell you much more than that.”

“We know it’s a rifle,” Marcus said. “They would have had to be taken out from a distance.”

Parker nodded. “Got it. I’m not surprised. Rooster’s a sweet dog, but I wouldn’t want to get on his bad side.” She smiled at Turk. “What about you, boy? Do you have a bad side?”

Turk cocked his head, and Faith chuckled. “Only for bad people, right boy?” She lifted her gaze to Dr. Parker. “Is there anything someone could wear that would mask their scent from a trained K9?”

She shook her head. “It would be very difficult. Dogs have senses of smell that are hundreds of thousands of times more sensitive than human senses. They can literally be trained to smell the onset of a seizure. When dogs have been defeated, it’s usually because of a very strong smell that overpowers every other smell. Bleach and other strong cleaning chemicals are an example. Even then, it’s not common.”

“And if there was bleach at the crime scene, Turk would have picked it up,” Faith said. “Hmm. Nothing else?”

“The only other tactic I’ve ever heard of that works is making everything around a target smell like the target. So silly example, but if you could create a drug-scented air freshener and spray it all over a room, a dog might have trouble finding the actual drugs. Again, though, you’d have to find a way to make a scent that perfectly matches a target and then saturate that scent over everything. Considering that Walsh was killed outside, it’s just not likely.”

Faith sighed. “All right. Good to know. How’s Rooster? Is he doing okay?”

Tears came to Parker’s eyes. “He’s very upset, poor baby. He really loved Kevin. Dogs always bond with their handlers, but the bond between the two of them was more than just handler and K9. You should have seen the way he looked at him. Like Kevin was just the greatest creature to ever walk on the Earth.” She took a ragged breath and released it slowly. “He’s very depressed.”

“Do you mind if we talk to him?” Faith asked. She saw Marcus’s confused frown and explained, “Turk might be able to pick something up from him.” Dr. Parker looked hesitant, and Faith added, “If nothing else, it might cheer Rooster up to talk to another dog.”

That convinced Dr. Parker. She nodded and said, “All right. I’ll take you to him.”

The three of them followed her to the boarding house behind the medical center. The house was actually just the back five rooms of the building organized into separate facilities for cats, large dogs, small dogs, and other animals. Dr. Parker led them into the large dog room where a Belgian Malinois—a breed that always reminded Faith of a smaller version of a German Shepherd—sat in the corner with its head resting on its paws, a listless expression on its face.

When Faith saw the look in Rooster’s eyes, a powerful image of Turk’s expression when they first met crossed her mind. Turk’s handler before Faith was an FBI agent named Jack Preston. Preston was the lead on the Donkey Killer case with Faith and Michael as senior assisting agents. Turk had caught Jethro Trammell’s scent, but Trammell had lain in wait for them and killed Preston, nearly killing Turk in the process. When Faith first met Turk, he was still grieving Jack’s loss. He looked much the way Rooster did now.

Turk noticed it too. He trotted immediately to Rooster and laid his head over the smaller dog’s back. His eyes grew moist, and he whined mournfully.

Faith smiled at Rooster and kneeled in front of him. “Hey, buddy.”

Rooster lifted his eyes to her but didn’t react otherwise. Faith reached down and scratched him behind his ears. Rooster allowed the touch but still didn’t respond.

“I’m so sorry for your loss,” Faith told him. “We’re going to catch the asshole who did this to Kevin, okay?”

Rooster looked up at her again. “You’re a good dog,” Faith assured him. “You did really well. Kevin would be proud of you.”

A brief emotion flashed across Rooster’s face. It looked like irritation. It was gone as quickly as it came, and Rooster turned his head and looked past Faith at the wall. It didn’t matter if he was a good dog or not. He had failed to protect his handler.

She smiled sadly at Turk, who wore a look of grief that cut Faith to the core. She wondered if he was remembering Jack, remembering what had to be the worst day of his life. She turned to Dr. Parker, who was crying softly and drying her eyes with a paper towel. “Has the Army contacted you about Rooster’s disposition?”

“They’re…” she steadied herself with a breath. “They’re going to perform an assessment to see if he can still function as a K9 unit. If he passes, he’ll be assigned a new handler. If he fails, he’ll be discharged.”

“It better be an honorable discharge,” Marcus said darkly. The detective wasn’t so stoic that he was unaffected by Rooster’s plight.

“In this case, it would be an honorable discharge due to mental distress,” Dr. Parker confirmed. “This is fairly common among dogs who lose their handlers.”

“I believe it,” Faith said. “Poor guy.”

“If he needs a home, let me know,” Marcus said, leaving Dr. Parker his card. “I have a Newfoundland, but he’s the gentlest giant on Earth. He’ll get along well with Rooster.”

“Oh, thank you,” Dr. Parker said. “I’ll pass this along to the officer in charge of Rooster’s disposition.”

Faith’s respect for Marcus increased a hundredfold. Maybe she was a little biased, but she absolutely believed that people who were kind to dogs were better people in general.

She looked at Turk and wished she could leave him here to comfort Rooster. But they had a job to do. “Turk, do you smell anything, boy?”

Turk gave her a slightly hurt look, but he complied. He sniffed Rooster, who allowed the examination to take place without reacting. When Turk finished, he dipped his head to Faith to let her know he hadn’t found anything, then nuzzled Rooster. Rooster looked at Turk, and Faith saw something break inside of him. He shuffled closer to the big dog, buried his head in Turk’s chest and began whimpering mournfully.

Turk looked up at Faith, the same grief in his own eyes. He lifted his head and howled softly. The other two big dogs in the room added their voices, all of them mourning the loss suffered by one of their own. Faith felt a lump in her throat and had to look away so she didn’t break into tears.

She tried very hard not to make cases personal. In her line of work, that was dangerous. Even in the West case, when the killer had made it personal before she ever did, she’d learned the hard way that taking an investigation personally invariably led to bad outcomes. It was only when she was able to separate herself from West that she’d been able to bring him in.

But this was personal. Someone was murdering K9 handlers and leaving their dogs broken shells. Rooster might get lucky like Turk and find a partner—whether working or otherwise—with whom he could bond and heal from the loss of his handler. Even if he did, he would still carry the mental scars of losing Sergeant Walsh.

She wondered if Turk carried those scars too, if somewhere beneath his happy exterior, he remembered losing Jack. Were his dreams, like Faith’s, plagued with the taunts of a killer?

CHAPTER FIVE

The handler adjusted the focus on his field glasses until the image of Technical Sergeant Maria Delgado and her dog, a beautiful Dobermann with the sleek coat and noble lines typical of the breed, grew sharp. Delgado was leading the dog through a series of exercises in preparation for his annual board evaluation.

The handler wasn’t a fan of shorthaired breeds like Dobermanns in cold weather environments like the winters here in Minnesota, but it was useful for a military K9 to train in adverse conditions. It wasn’t likely that the US would ever find itself at war in a frozen environment, but considering Russia’s increasingly hostile rhetoric, it wasn’t out of the question.

The handler watched the dog complete an obstacle course, gracefully sliding under and leaping over obstacles. He was particularly impressed with the way the dog navigated the slalom. That was one advantage the long-legged Dobermann had over more typical K9 breeds such as the German Shepherd and the Belgian Malinois. The extra stability granted by the legs allowed it to pivot more effectively at speed.

It truly was a shame. Sergeant Delgado appeared to be an excellent handler. Not that he could be sure from this little demonstration. He wasn’t usually impressed by Air Force handlers. They were serviceable, but the handler always had the impression that anything the Air Force did that wasn’t directly related to flying planes was for show more than anything else. Just like the Special Operations unit they had. They were good enough from what he could tell, but was there really a point to having an Air Force unit that could sort of do what the Green Berets and Navy SEALs did for a living?

Their handlers were similar. They could make their dogs go through the motions, but put the dogs in a real combat situation, and he wasn’t confident they’d do well, especially considering the kinds of things the brass expected from their dogs these days. Or maybe the Air Force had smarter leaders than the other branches.

The obstacle course complete, the dog bounded to Sergeant Delgado and stood proudly in front of her. Dobermanns really were beautiful dogs. He might have to consider getting one.

No sooner had the thought crossed his mind than he remembered his old dog, and guilt flooded him. No, he could never have another dog. Not after what had happened. He could never be the devoted owner he needed to be. The memories were too painful.

The next exercise was a takedown exercise. Sergeant Delgado fitted the oversized protective suit and gave her dog the command. Instantly, the calm, regal Dobermann became a snarling, vicious ball of terror. Delgado probably weighed one twenty, and her dog probably weighed one hundred. Dogs of that size could easily take down large men, so when the Dobermann hit her, her feet left the ground for nearly a full second before she landed, cutting a groove in the snow.

Actually, the Dobermann’s strength might be an issue. More so, his speed. If the handler didn’t place a shot perfectly but alerted the dog in the process, he would have perhaps three seconds to place another one before he was set upon.

He’d have to approach this one more carefully. He looked away from his field glasses and looked for places he could shoot from an elevated position. He spotted a grove of trees on the other side of the field. Those would work, but they were fifty yards from the training field. That would leave him a fairly small area where he could place an effective shot. The roof of the kennel was an obvious choice, but it would be very difficult to reach any military building, especially after the first killings.

There was nothing to do. He’d just have to make damned sure he didn’t miss.

The exercises over, Sergeant Delgado and her K9 left the snow and headed into the kennel. The handler knew that she would return at eight that night to conduct her night exercises. That was far earlier than the handler liked, but it would still be dark outside, and there wasn’t likely to be anyone else out in this cold. He’d have time.

He packed his field glasses and headed to his truck. He needed to adjust the dose of the K9 dart to account for this animal’s larger size. In fact, he needed to adjust the human dose to account for Sergeant Delgado’s smaller size. It was crucial that his victims be alive before he killed them. The lessons he was trying to teach didn’t work if the humans were put to sleep like dogs.

His lips thinned. Dogs deserved better than that too. They deserved to be free is what they deserved. Not stuck here where a bad call from a fucking idiot could get them killed.

He reached his truck and drove smoothly over the snow toward the road. The truck was a lifted Power Wagon, so he wasn’t worried about getting it stuck. The downside to that was that it was noticeable. It turned heads. That limited where the handler could go and how long he could stay there.

Oh well. That was a minor logistics problem. He’d figure it out.

The sun blazed off of the snow ahead, forcing the handler to squint even through his sunglasses. It had been a while since he’d been in the area. He’d gotten used to snow being something to drive to instead of something he lived in.

When he reached his apartment, he parked the Power Wagon across the street and walked inside, a courtesy he showed the other residents since his truck was large enough to be a nuisance in the small parking lot. Courtesy was important. Politeness was important. People looked at men like him a certain way, and if he wanted to avoid suspicion, he had to act the other way.

He’d eat a good meal, get some rest, prepare his darts, and come back to the Air National Guard Station that night. Then he would serve a little more justice.

CHAPTER SIX

After leaving Dr. Parker’s practice, Faith, Marcus, and Turk went to a local café for breakfast. Turk ordinarily ate his food with all of the enthusiasm of a teenager, but now he ate slowly, his eyes still burdened with the grief he’d seen in Rooster’s eyes and perhaps also with the memory of his own grief.

Faith reached down to scratch him behind his ear, and he lifted his eyes to hers and moaned softly. “I know, boy,” she said. “Don’t worry. We’ll get him.”

“So where do we go from here?” Marcus asked.

“From here, we brainstorm,” Faith said. “First, what can you tell me about the first crime scene?”

“It was almost a shot-for-shot remake of the second one. Or the second one is a shot-for-shot remake of the first. Master Sergeant Reeves was sedated in an open field, as was his K-9. He was murdered by having his throat cut with a sharp implement with a non-serrated blade, most likely a knife. The K-9 took about a day to fully recover and was then released to the Marine Corps. Substances used were the same, with doses tailored to the individuals involved. You know about the boot prints already, but nothing else distinguishing was found.”

“I suppose it would be a waste of time to look for people who wear size twelve army boots in your system,” Faith said.

“Oh yes. That would leave us with thousands of leads to work through. Also, it’s not unheard of for killers to shove their feet into shoes two sizes too small for them or even one size too large. We can’t know from the shoe size who our killer is.”

“Not without more information,” Faith conceded.

She sipped her coffee and thought about something Dr. Parker had said. “Did Reeves’ dog suffer any aftereffects of cold exposure?”

Marcus shook his head. “Not that I’m aware of, no. I have to imagine not since it was turned over to the Marine Corps swiftly. If there were any injuries, it couldn’t be anything serious. I assume the tranquilizer had the same metabolic effect as it had on Rooster and protected Shadow. That’s Reeves’ dog’s name.”

“I’m wondering if the killer chose that cocktail of drugs on purpose.”

Marcus raised an eyebrow. “Well, I assume so. You don’t want your enemy conscious and trying to escape or kill you for several minutes after being shot.”

“Yes, but I also wonder if the fact that it protected the dogs against the cold was a factor.”

Marcus got the point. “You think he was going out of his way to make sure the dogs survived.”

“I think so. He sedated both dog and handler but left the dogs alive. That’s a pretty clear sign that his beef is with the people.”

“So he created a sedative that would protect dogs from cold, give him enough time to work, and work fast enough that they couldn’t call for help or attack him.”

“That’s my hypothesis. I want to look into this a little more. I want to figure out what the two victims might have done to convince someone that they didn’t deserve to have their dogs.”

“Let’s go back to the station,” Marcus suggested. “I’ll call the Marine Corps and the Army on the way and see if they can send us both of their files.”

“Perfect. This killer is acting based on a personal motive, a very deeply held belief that this is what the victims deserve. Possibly he feels that this is what he deserves, and he’s projecting his self-loathing onto them.”

“Hell of a way to project.”

“There’s never a positive way to make your problems someone else’s,” Faith remarked. She finished the last of her coffee and got to her feet. “Come on, Turk. Let’s go put in some legwork.”

Marcus chuckled. “Does it count as legwork if we’re sitting in front of a computer and reading?”

“I like to think positively,” Faith said. “Maybe we’ll find something that will give us another lead. Then we’ll be using our legs.”

“So headwork first, then legwork.”

She grimaced. “I guess so, but headwork sounds weird.”

He laughed again. “Fair enough.”

***

The Duluth Police Department was located near the city center. Here, Faith saw some of the traffic and larger buildings of a real city. It still didn’t hold a candle to Philadelphia, but she wouldn’t use the word cozy to describe it.

When they parked, Marcus warned Faith, “This is the part where I have to give you the disclaimer that I can’t commit to hiding your involvement in the case. There are a lot of employees here, from officers to dispatch to internal affairs to janitorial staff to corrections officers. I can’t promise that they’ll all keep a secret. We’ll try not to parade you all over the station, but one of them might recognize you and think nothing of putting the word out there. I’ll tell everyone to keep their mouths shut, but you know how that goes.”

“Like waving a chew toy in front of a dog,” Faith replied. Turk gave her a hurt look, and she scratched his chin, “Except for you, boy.”

He snorted and hopped out of the car. Faith smiled and followed her sensitive puppy into the building. Marcus led them to an office on the third floor that was both more spacious and more well-equipped than the offices of Lieutenant Torres and Dr. Parker. Police detective was a good gig. Maybe Faith would compromise and take a detective gig at a local police department somewhere. Lots of agents did that when they started slowing down and didn’t want the stress of an FBI job anymore.

“You want Reeves or Walsh?” Marcus asked.

“I’ll take Reeves. I was USMC.”

That had absolutely no bearing on their case, but she needed to make a decision for some reason, right? She set her laptop on the other side of Marcus’s desk and looked through Reeves’ files.

Master Sergeant Thomas Reeves was forty-four years old and had declined a promotion to Master Gunnery Sergeant three years prior in favor or retiring when he reached his high year of tenure. He’d listed his reason for the choice as wanting to explore opportunities in the civilian world. A fairly common reason that covered everything from wanting an easier job to wanting to change careers entirely to wanting to work as little as possible and pick up a part-time gig at a tire shop to cover whatever his pension wouldn’t.

His record was exemplary, which was pretty much a requirement if you wanted to make Master Sergeant. Her old First Sergeant used to joke that any Marine smart enough to stop eating crayons could make Staff Sergeant. If you wanted to make Gunny or above, you needed to be smart enough to have never eaten crayons. That was the Marine way of saying that if you weren’t a cut above the rest for your entire career, then you didn’t have a chance of making senior NCO.

He’d trained sixteen K9s personally and overseen the training of dozens more. He was respected enough that he often visited different branches and offered his expertise to their own training programs. He had come off of a three-week stint helping the Air Force with their training program and had a few days off before returning to his permanent post.

One thing stood out to Faith as a possible motive for their killer. One of Reeves’ dogs had been lost in combat ten years ago in Syria. Reeves was a staff sergeant at the time, and his squad was clearing a building in Aleppo. An intelligence mistake led to them sending dogs into a building believed to be occupied only by lightly armed rebel stragglers when it was, in fact, occupied by an entrenched rebel force. Reeves’ dog was killed, and the American presence in Aleppo was revealed, causing a minor scandal since the United States was publicly opposed to the government.

That scandal could be a motive, too, if Walsh had been involved with any clandestine operations in Syria. “Hey, Marcus, was Walsh ever in Syria?”

“If he was, it wasn’t with the U.S. Army. One of his dogs died in combat, though.”

So it was option one, after all. “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. The dog he had before Rooster. He was a bomb-sniffing dog, but he missed one. Stepped on an IED masked with goat blood and got blown to smithereens. Apparently, that was something insurgents did from time to time in Afghanistan. After that incident, the Army began training their dogs to detect scents through different types of animal blood.”

Faith grimaced. “Damn. That’s awful.”

“It is. Awful enough that Walsh rotated home early and missed out on a chance to promote to Sergeant First Class.”

“My guy lost a dog too,” Faith said. “Do you remember that scandal about ten years ago where the U.S. was caught secretly supporting government forces in Aleppo?”

“I remember glancing at a headline or two.”

“Well, Reeves was there. His dog went into a building that was supposed to be lightly defended and ended up running into a machine gun emplacement.”

“Ouch. That is also awful.”

“And it’s also motive.”

“You think our boy’s hunting people who lost dogs in combat?”

“It’s another connection between our victims,” Faith replied, “And it could explain why these particular handlers.”

“I like it.”

There was a knock at Marcus’s office door. His brow furrowed. “Come in.”

The door opened, and a young officer with a ponytail said, “There’s a Lieutenant Rebecca Torres here to see you, Detective. She says it has something to do with your case.”

“Perfect. Send her on up.”

The officer nodded and backed out of the doorway. Marcus grinned at Faith. “Looks like we might be getting some legwork soon.”

“That’s good,” Faith quipped. “I’ve never been a big fan of headwork.”

Turk cocked his head at the two humans for a moment, then went back to staring out the window at the traffic. Sometimes humans were just weird, but you had to love them anyway.

The ones who weren’t serial killers, anyway.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Lieutenant Torres was wearing civilian clothes today, a pair of jeans and a fur coat with a wool scarf and gloves that looked exactly like the ones Marcus told Faith were too small. Torres looked perfectly comfortable in that outfit and even took the jacket off when she entered the office. Maybe Marcus knew that someone like Faith who wasn’t local wouldn’t have the same tolerance to cold as a native would.

“I was across the street at the taco place,” Torres explained, “and I saw you two pull in. It hit me that I actually did know of a reason why someone might want to kill Reeves and Torres. I figured since I was across the street, I would stop by and tell you in person instead of calling.”

She took the other seat. “I’m sorry for not remembering this earlier. I was just in so much shock, and at the time everything went down, no one thought about it. It didn’t seem like a big deal. Guess we were wrong.”

Turk trotted over to Torres and rested his head on her lap. Torres looked at his big brown eyes, and all of the tension in her body melted away. If Turk ever retired, he would have an excellent second career as a therapy dog.

“That’s all right, Lieutenant,” Marcus replied. “Tell me what you remember.”

Torres lifted her gaze from Turk’s. “The review board that Reeves and Walsh were a part of was convened because of an incident involving a botched mission against ISIS. Seven U.S. soldiers were killed and three K9s were lost. The review board was convened to investigate Army training practices and determine if the Army was at fault for the K9s’ failure to detect the IEDs that killed the servicemembers.”

“They convened that review board here?”

“It was convened at the US Army Department building in St. Paul two and a half hours south of here,” Torres replied. “The unit involved was a Minnesota reserve unit—not ours—that was on active deployment. There was some friction over the review board selection because of Master Sergeant Reeves’ inclusion. A lot of people thought it sent a poor message to have a Marine Corps NCO on an Army review board.”

“Did the Army give a reason for his inclusion?” Faith asked.

“He’s a—was a very well-respected leader in military K-9 training programs. He would have made a warrant officer if he’d asked for it. At least, that’s what Kevin always said. He really admired Reeves. Anyway, the Army didn’t back down on his inclusion, so I guess the brass felt the same way.”

 “Where does Walsh fit into this?” Faith asked.

“I don’t think it’s Kevin specifically,” Torres replied. “The board found that the Army was not at fault for the loss of the dogs. They found that it was the handlers who made an error by using the dogs incorrectly and not conducting a sensor sweep of the area before sending the dogs. That set one of the handlers off.”

“Who?”

“Staff Sergeant Eric Davidson. One of his dogs was killed in the mission, and he’d been very vocal about his belief that the Army’s training program needed to be updated to adapt to the new threats that soldiers faced in Iraq. He argued that since the Army refused to allocate the necessary budget to update the curriculum, then they were morally, logistically and financially responsible for the loss of the dogs and for the mission’s failure.”

Faith lifted an eyebrow. “Financially? He was asking for compensation?”

Torres sighed. “To be honest, no one was really sure what he was asking for. I don’t think he was entirely sure what he was asking for. It became clear early on that Sergeant Davidson was deeply affected by the loss of his dog and was likely to be declared psychologically unfit for further service. His actions at the review board hearing confirmed it.”

“Did he assault the board members?” Marcus asked.

“He tried to. He was intercepted by security, but he was saying a lot of horrible things.”

“What horrible things.”

Torres shrugged. “Oh, you know. The usual bullshit.”

“I know it’s probably hard to repeat,” Faith said, “but we need you to be specific. This could be important later.”

Torres’s lips trembled, and she stroked Turk’s fur a little faster. “Kevin was really upset after that review board. He came home and said that… that Sergeant Davidson had threatened to kill him and everyone else on the board. He didn’t believe that Sergeant Davidson would try to carry out that threat, and neither did I, but still, it’s a heavy thing to hear one of your own tell you that they think of you as an enemy. The Army is a brotherhood. We stand with our own, not against them.”

“It looks like Sergeant Davidson thought that the Army was standing against him,” Marcus surmised.

“We weren’t, though. The whole point of the review board was to detect a problem if there was a problem to begin with. They weren’t trying to pin the blame on anyone. They were just trying to figure out where the weak link in the chain was so they could fix it.”

“I’m not suggesting that the board did anything wrong,” Marcus assured her, “but understanding our killer’s motive is critical if we’re going to catch him.”

“And you didn’t remember this until just now?” Faith asked. “Someone threatened to kill both of our victims, and you only just now remember?”

“I’m sorry,” Torres replied, lips trembling. “I just didn’t think anything of it. Combat is stressful, and people say shit. We—Kevin and I—felt bad for him more than anything. You know as well as anyone, I’m sure, how close the bond is between a dog and a handler. Their board found that Davidson had killed his dog by not using him properly. That’s a very hard thing to hear. We thought he just needed time to grieve.”

“You said it became clear early on that Sergeant Davidson was going to be declared psychologically unfit for duty,” Faith said. “Was he declared unfit?”

“Yes. He received a dishonorable discharge from the service three weeks after the board convened.”

“And did you ever hear from him after that?” Marcus asked.

“No. He disappeared. We figured he had his outburst and just…” She lifted a hand to her eyes and tried to stifle her tears. “We just didn’t think anything would come of it.”

Turk whined softly and shared a downcast look with Faith. Faith had a feeling she’d be seeing a lot of those looks from him in the coming days.

“It’s a long shot, I know,” she said, “But do you know where Eric Davidson lives now?”

Torres shook her head. “No. He wasn’t part of my unit. I never even interacted with him.”

“What about the other members of the review board?” Marcus asked. “Do you have that information for us yet?”

She shook her head again. “I put the request in this morning. If they expedite it, I should have an answer tomorrow. If it’s normal bureaucracy it could be anytime between now and the heat death of the universe.” She chuckled a little at her own joke, but with the tears running down her face, it sounded like more of a sob.

“Thank you for coming to us, Rebecca,” Faith said. “Are you going to be able to take some time off for Kevin’s memorial?”

She nodded. “Like I said, I only work for the Army on weekends. His memorial is on Wednesday, and then I’m taking the following two weekends off. I’ll get some time.” Tears welled in her eyes again. “It just sucks. I mean, I know you never know what the future holds, and Kevin and I were still fairly new, but I had this dream that he and I would end up together. I thought we had all the time in the world to figure that out. And now it’s all gone. Just like that.”

Faith felt an odd mix of sympathy and guilt. Her own relationship was nearing its second anniversary, and Faith was still resisting David’s efforts to move in together—a fairly normal next step at this point. She loved him, but she wasn’t really sure she even wanted to marry. She liked her time with him, but she liked her time alone too.

She wasn’t here to debate the merits of committed relationships, though. She was here to catch a killer. “Go home and get some rest, Rebecca. We’ll find this guy.”

Rebecca smiled through her tears. “I know you will. Thank you. On behalf of myself, Kevin, and the unit, thank you.”

She gave Turk a final hug, then left the office. When she was gone, Marcus turned to his computer. “Okay, Eric Davidson, former Army K9 handler. Let’s see what we find here.”

Turk trotted to Faith and sat next to her, staring glumly out of the window. She reached down and stroked his fur. “It’s a rough one, huh, boy?”

Turk whined softly and nuzzled her legs. She patted his head. “I’m not going anywhere, boy. I promise you. You won’t lose me.”

With the wisdom of age, Turk lifted his eyes to hers. Those eyes told Faith that Turk appreciated the promise but knew as well as she did that her promise was one over which she had no control. People made mistakes. Sometimes it wasn’t a mistake. Sometimes people did everything right and still lost. It was one of life’s most brutal truths.

“All right,” Marcus said. “I have an address and a phone number. Which one do you want first?”

“Address.”

He read it off to her, and she asked, “Is that close by?”

“Yep. Hermantown is the next town over. We can be there in twenty minutes.”

“That long to reach the next town over?”

“Lunch rush,” he explained. “Also, it’s on the western end of Hermantown. Still within a half hour of both crime scenes, even in traffic. Maybe ten minutes in no traffic.”

“All right,” Faith said. “Let’s head there.”

Traffic was indeed busier than before. For the first time, Duluth seemed like an actual city to Faith. She considered telling Marcus to use his lights to clear some space, but that would be the opposite of laying low and depending on his department’s policy, it could land him in trouble. So, she bit her lip and waited.

Her phone buzzed while they drove. Michael.

Found a lead. Going to talk to her right now.

Faith texted back. Be careful, please.

I will.

Not just with this interview. If West knows about the Messenger Killer, he could be influencing things behind the scenes. If he isn’t now, he will eventually. He could target you El, lie, or David.

After a brief pause, Michael replied, I’ll be careful. Ellie’s being careful, too. She always is after being married to West. As for David, I’ll check in on him as often as I can, but it might be worth it for you to send him a message warning him.

Faith sighed. David would no doubt be very irritated to hear this information. He hadn’t taken very well to it the last time she warned him about a killer. That was another reason why she wasn’t too enthused about moving in with him. Living with a law enforcement officer took a different kind of commitment.

But that was for later. She had a killer of her own to catch. She looked at Turk and saw the same determination in his own eyes. If Davidson was the asshole targeting handlers in front of their K9s, then he would get the punishment he deserved.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Special Agent Michael Prince reflected on his partner’s warning. He’d dismissed West’s bravado as the desperate attempt of an insecure narcissist to feel dangerous and important even with the looming threat of his sentencing hanging over his head. He still felt that way, but considering the consequences of being wrong, he wondered if maybe it was time to stop his extracurricular activities and bring these developments to Desrouleaux’s attention. He wasn’t arrogant enough to believe that he could keep Ellie and David safe on his own, but the Bureau’s monitoring of them when West was at large had kept them safe.

He would have to consider that. In the meantime, he would focus on his suspect. If Marion Ravenwood ended up being the Messenger Killer, then all of this was a moot point.

He pulled his SUV to the curb across the street. Marion Ravenwood had a comfortable home in Bustleton in the northeast portion of the city. The porch was shoveled and salted and the walk was similarly protected against snow and ice. The planter in front of the house was filled with poinsettias, a winter-appropriate flower popular in holiday arrangements, and a wreath still hung in the living room window. Michael imagined a smiling woman in an apron with shoulder-length hair and soft brown eyes who could believably spend most of her days in the kitchen watching sitcoms on a small countertop TV while baking cookies for the local homeless shelter.

In his career, he’d seen plenty of harmless looking people turn out to be incredibly dangerous. West himself was rather slightly built with a mellow voice that reminded Michael more of an NPR host than one of the most dangerous serial killers in U.S. history.

When he reached the door, he heard the theme song to a popular sitcom playing inside and stifled a chuckle. He knocked, and the music quieted.

He crossed his arms to bring his right hand closer to his pistol, just in case. The door opened, revealing a woman who almost perfectly fit Michael’s description. The only difference was that she wore a pair of jeans rather than an apron. She smiled politely at Michael, but with a hint of wariness. “Can I help you?”

Michael returned her smile. “Good afternoon, ma’am. I’m Special Agent Michael Prince with the FBI. Are you Marion Ravenwood?” The color drained instantly from her face, and Michael said, “You are. I can tell by the instant terror that came to your eyes. That tells me you also have something to tell me. So, shall we talk?”

Marion swallowed. “I don’t think so. I don’t know what you’re talking about, and I don’t appreciate you walking up to my porch and telling me all of this nonsense.”

She made to close the door, but Michael stopped it with his foot. That was a huge no-no, but his entire involvement in this case was a huge no-no, so why stop now?

“See, the thing is, I have evidence that you’ve been corresponding with Franklin West, aka the Copycat Killer, aka the most dangerous serial killer since Henry Lee Lucas, aka the man who has repeatedly threatened the FBI and its agents with some very colorful promises of death and destruction.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Now leave my property…”

Her voice trailed off when Michael reached into his jacket, not for his gun, but for folded letters with very clear handwriting on it. “So you didn’t write these?” Michael asked. “When we raid your office and find examples of your handwriting, it won’t match perfectly? We won’t see security footage of you mailing these letters? We won’t—”

“Okay,” Marion hissed. “Shit.” She ran her hands through her hair. “Come inside.”

Michael replaced the letters and showed her his gun. “I’ll come inside,” he said, “and I’m coming back outside. Are we clear?”

She paled further. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

“You’ll have to forgive me for not believing you,” he said.

“Well, I’ll be in sight, and if you prefer, we can talk in the living room away from the kitchen knives.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Well, since you bring it up, I would love to talk in the living room away from the kitchen knives.”

Marion looked over Michael’s head, biting her lip. “Did anyone see you come in?”

He frowned. “A lot of people know I’m here. If you—”

“I’m not threatening you!” she snapped. “I just don’t want the neighbors seeing a strange man walk into my house. God, is that your car?”

She pointed at Michael’s Grand Wagoneer. “That’s it. Why?”

“Because it’s the size of a damned yacht. Honestly, why do people need cars that big?”

He rolled his eyes. “Let’s criticize my choice of transportation after we talk about the letters you sent to a known serial killer talking about how an FBI agent deserved to—and I quote—have her eyes cut out and fed to—”

“Okay,” she whined. “Come in then, and let’s talk.”

She made an impatient rowing motion with her hands, and Michael resisted the urge to move slowly just for the hell of it. He followed her into the living room, keeping one hand on his gun and letting his eyes scan back and forth for any accomplices.

When they reached the living room, Marion closed the blinds of the windows, moving briskly across the room. Soon, the outside world was cut off. Michael pulled his handgun and set it on the small table next to the couch.

Marion took her seat across from him on the loveseat. When she saw the gun, she cried out. “What the hell? Are you serious?”

Michael ignored her. “We’ll start with a direct question: are you the Messenger Killer?”

“The what?”

His eyes narrowed. “Are you responsible for the death of Grant Monroe and two other victims left with messages to Special Agent Faith Bold on their bodies?”

She paled when she heard Faith’s name. “No. I swear it.”

“That doesn’t mean shit to me. You wrote West saying that you were going to kill Faith. Do you remember that?”

“I didn’t say that,” Marion corrected. “I said that she deserves to die. I didn’t say I would kill her.”

“But you did write to West.”

She realized her mistake and swore. “Damn it. How did you figure that out?”

“I’m a good detective.”

In reality, he had blackmailed the warden of the prison where Dr. West was held, and the warden had given him the letters. The ones he had in his pocket were only copies. The originals were at home.

She ran her hands through her hair. She was starting to tremble, her lips shaking with emotion. “Have you told anyone else?”

“Not yet,” he replied.

She took a deep breath and tried to steady herself. “Please don’t tell anyone. If my husband found out I was doing this, it would be the end of my marriage.”

“One might argue that it should be the end of your marriage.”

“Yes, but it doesn’t mean anything.”

“Writing a serial killer and offering to murder his enemies—most particularly an FBI agent—to smithereens doesn’t mean anything?”

“God, it was just…” she sighed. “Look, it was just for fun. I wasn’t going to do anything. I just wrote to him because… I mean…”

She struggled for an answer, probably trying to come up with something that didn’t sound utterly stupid. What she came up with definitely qualified as stupid.

“You know, life is short.”

“Shorter when it’s ended by a serial killer,” Michael pointed out.

She slumped. “He’s in jail. Let’s be real, he’s not getting out. I don’t know if you’ve seen the prison they’re holding him in, but they have him guarded like he’s Hannibal Lecter. Yes, I know Lecter gets out in the movie, but this isn’t a movie. He’s going to be in jail for the rest of his life.”

“It’s a good thing he’s got friends on the outside,” Michael said. “Friends who can go after the biggest thorn in his side.”

“I’m not going to go after anyone,” she insisted. “I was just having fun. Don’t look at me like that. It’s the truth.”

“Help me understand what’s fun about a married woman having an emotional affair with a man who enjoyed tying people to chairs and cutting them until they nearly bled out, then severing their tendons until they didn’t look human, and then watching them bleed to death.”

Marion’s gaze lowered.

“Sounds a lot less fun when you say it out loud, doesn’t it?” Michael said.

She swallowed. “I didn’t think about all of that. I just…” She looked at the door and tapped her foot. “My husband will be home soon. Can we talk about this—”

“I am very close to telling the entire world about the letters you wrote West,” Michael interrupted, “And I could not give a single shit about what happens to you if that story gets out. If you want to convince me not to ruin your life and enjoy every second of doing so, start being honest with me.”

“Okay!” she shouted. “God damn it.” Tears were running down her face now. “Look, strong men are sexy. Men who can dominate people are sexy. My husband is a good guy, but he’s so gentle all the time. I want to be with a man who will just take control, you know? West takes control.”

“By murdering people.”

“Yes, I know. You don’t have to keep reminding me. I wrote West those letters because I think it’s sexy to imagine a man who treats me like a princess, screws me like a whore, protects me from people by tearing them to literal pieces, and takes what he wants when he wants, regardless of the consequences. Yes, in real life, I understand that it’s wrong to do all of those things, and if West showed up at my door to fulfill all of those dreams, I’d probably be scared out of my wits. But this isn’t real life. It’s just a game. I’m writing someone who can’t even write me back. And I would never come after Faith Bold. I’m not that kind of woman. It’s just… a game.”

Michael let the silence hang in the air until Marion began to fidget. “I’m going to guess by the fact that you won’t meet my eyes that you understand how absolutely stupid you sound right now,” he said. “Which is good, because you see, Marion, this isn’t a game. Thirty-two people lost their lives in brutal fashion at this man’s hands, including a colleague and personal friend of mine. Those are just the people we know about. There’s evidence to indicate that the actual number of victims might be twice that many. There’s a memorial for his victims at City Center. I’ve seen young children there put flowers on pictures of their mommies and daddies and ask God to take good care of their parents and maybe let them visit as angels in their dreams so they can see them one more time.”

Marion began to shake when she heard that. She lifted her head, her eyes wide as though a veil had just been lifted from her eyes. “Oh God. What have I done? I never… It was just… I just wanted to have fun.”

“Where were you on the night of November eleventh?” Michael demanded.

“I was with my husband. That’s his mom’s birthday. We always visit his mom on his birthday. I can show you a picture on my Instagram.”

“Show me.”

She complied, her hands trembling so badly that she nearly dropped her phone. Michael sent himself the image and said, “I’m going to confirm that this image was taken at the date and time stamped to it. If I find out it’s been tampered with in any way, I’m going to come back, and I’m going to be a lot less nice. Do we understand each other?”

“Yes,” she whispered softly.

“Good.” He stood. “Do your husband a favor. Leave him. Unless he’s a real piece of shit—which you say he isn’t—he deserves to marry a woman, not a spoiled, stupid brat who thinks murderers are sexy.”

He left the house without waiting for an answer. He was angry not just because Marion was a spoiled, stupid brat but also because after talking with her, he no longer thought she was the murderer. She was an idiot, but she didn’t seem violent to him. He would confirm her alibi just in case, but he knew already that this was a dead end. The Messenger Killer was still out there.

And until she was caught, they weren’t safe. Ellie wasn’t safe.

He sighed and put his car in gear. He wished more than anything that Faith was here to help him.

Actually, she had helped him. She had given him the tough love he needed to hear. He couldn’t do this on his own. It was time to get help.

CHAPTER NINE

Marcus and Faith approached Eric Davidson’s residence with guns drawn. Turk trotted next to them, padding silently like a wolf as they ascended the stairs to the second floor. Eric was in apartment two-twenty-three, a modest one-bedroom in a six-story medium rise.

Marcus knocked loudly. “Police! Open up!”

No answer.

He knocked again. “Police! Eric Davidson, open up!”

No answer.

Marcus looked at Faith and took a deep breath. “One more time, then we go in?”

She nodded and positioned herself on the side of the door, ready to cover Marcus if he needed to break the door down. Marcus knocked one more time. “Eric Davidson, this is the police! Come out with your hands where we can see them! If you do not comply, we will force the door! Do you understand?”

No answer. Marcus nodded, squared his shoulders and lifted his leg. Just before he kicked, the door to the unit next to them opened, and an elderly woman called, “Excuse me?”

Marcus and Faith looked at her. “Yes?”

“If you’re looking for Eric, you won’t find him here. He’s very ill. He’s staying at the VA hospital.”

Faith blinked. “How long has he been there?”

“Oh, weeks now. He got sick before Thanksgiving.”

Faith looked at Marcus. The big detective lowered his leg. “You’re sure of this, ma’am?”

“Well, I live next door to him, don’t I?” the woman said, miffed.

Faith sighed. “Yes, you do. Thank you, Miss…”

“It’s Mrs. Delilah Sanderson. And you’re welcome. I understand you have jobs to do, but if we can avoid making a commotion, that’s ideal, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Yes,” Marcus replied. “We apologize for the intrusion.”

“That’s all right,” Delilah said, closing her door. “Good luck, Detective.”

Faith, Marcus, and Turk returned to the cruiser. Marcus called the VA hospital on the way and confirmed that Eric Davidson was indeed a long-term resident in the hospice ward. Moreover, he hadn’t left the hospital in three months and wasn’t expected to leave it alive.

“Well, that’s shit,” Marcus said. “There goes our lead.”

“We should talk to him anyway,” Faith said. “He might have insights that will help us.”

“Maybe,” Marcus replied doubtfully. He sighed. “Yeah, maybe. I’m sure he wasn’t the only one upset about the review board. We’ll go talk to him.”

The VA hospital was on the other side of Hermantown, about ten minutes from Davidson’s home. It was an expansive facility and very beautiful. Faith wondered how the VA decided which facilities to dress up like luxury resorts and which facilities to slap together with no budget and stick in strip malls.

They walked in and were met by a nervous nurse and a stern doctor. The doctor crossed her arms and stood in front of them. “May I ask why you need to see Mr. Davidson? He’s very ill, and I would prefer not to subject him to any unnecessary discomfort.”

“We suspect that he may have been involved in multiple murders,” Marcus replied.

The doctor scoffed. “Yeah, I don’t think so. He spends less than three hours a day outside of his bed, and none of that outside of this hospital. Not in this cold.”

“We still need to talk to him,” Faith replied. “Even if he’s not the killer, he could have insights that would help us determine who the real killer is.”

“What insights?”

“I’m afraid I can’t share that,” Faith said. “This is an ongoing investigation, and we can’t release details to the public.”

The doctor’s eyes moved between Marcus and Faith. Eventually, they settled on Turk. “What do you need a K9 for?”

“Turk is a trained investigator,” Faith replied. “His sense of smell has proven to be an invaluable tool for me.”

The doctor scoffed. “Yeah, well, this is a medical facility.”

“He’s licensed to enter medical facilities.”

“Is he magically cleaner than other dogs because he has K9 written on his vest?”

Faith tried to control her anger, but some of her frustration leaked through when she said, “Ma’am, I understand that this is frustrating for you, but we’re going to see Mr. Davidson. We have two murdered innocents, and whether Eric is directly responsible or not, he could have information that will help us find the person who killed them. We’ll be respectful of his time and his condition, but we need to see him.”

The doctor fell silent. She took several deep breaths while her nurse shuffled her feet, red-faced and clearly wishing to be anywhere else right now.

Finally, the doctor said, “Fine. But if anything happens to him, I will be reporting this encounter to both of your superiors. Do we understand each other?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Marcus said. “Thank you.”

“He’s room eleven. Take the hallway on the left and go down to the end.”

“Thank you again,” Faith replied.

The three of them headed for the room. The familiar bleach and pine scent of hospitals caused Faith’s nostrils to flare. She remembered what Dr. Parker had said, how bleach and other cleaning chemicals could interfere with a dog’s ability to smell. Maybe that had played a role after all.

They reached room eleven, and Marcus knocked on the door. A wheezy voice called, “Come in,” and the two of them entered.

As soon as Faith saw Eric Davidson, any lingering doubt she had that he might be their killer after all disappeared. Eric Davidson lay in bed with oxygen tubes in his nose and an IV in his left arm. According to the Minnesota Department of Public Safety’s licensing department, Eric was thirty-four years old. He looked easily twice that old now. His skin was a pale gray and paper-thin. The rest of him was equally thin, wasted until he was nearly skeletal. His eyes were fever-bright and sunk deep within his skull, and his lips were parched and cracked. Faith watched more cracks form as he smiled at the three of them.

“Pancreatic cancer,” he informed them. “Not very pretty, is it? The silver lining is it works fast. Docs don’t think I’ll make it to the thaw.”

Faith’s tongue loosened. “I’m so sorry.”

He made a movement that might have been a shrug. “Everyone dies. Some people live long and healthy lives, and some people live shitty lives that end with months of excruciating pain. That’s why they say life’s a bitch.”

Marcus looked at Faith uncomfortably, then cleared his throat. “Mr. Davidson, we’ll get out of your hair as soon as we can. We only need to ask you a few questions. Is that all right?”

“Sure. Not like I have anything better to do.” He released a hoarse cough that took Faith a moment to realize was actually laughter.

She started the questioning. “Mr. Davidson, we’re investigating the murders of Master Sergeant Thomas Reeves and Staff Sergeant Kevin Walsh. Both of them were found dead with their K9s sedated nearby.”

Eric’s eyes widened. “Oh. Wow. Well, I wish I could say it was me, but as you can see, my murdering days are over. Uncle Sam should thank me for the murdering I did for him back when I was healthy, though. I was pretty good at killing people.” He laughed again, and Faith and Marcus shared another uncomfortable look.

“We don’t suspect you of being the killer,” Faith replied, “but we’re hoping you might be able to help us figure out who the killer is.”

Eric smiled a macabre death’s head grin that made him look like a character in a horror movie. “What’s worse in your mind, Special Agent: a general who sacrifices his men when he makes a stupid decision or the sergeant who sends those men to their deaths knowing it’s a stupid decision?”

“What’s worse is a murderer who kills innocent people,” Faith replied. “If you know anything about the case, you need to tell us now.”

“Or what?” Eric challenged. “You’ll arrest me?” He laughed again. “I’m just teasing you. I’ll help. Like I said, I’ve got nothing better to do.”

“So you know who’s responsible?” Faith asked.

“Before I answer that,” Eric replied, “Let me tell you why those two deserved to die.”

Faith frowned. “That’s not what we’re here for, Mr. Davidson.”

“Tough shit. I’m dying of cancer before my thirty-fifth birthday, so you will stand there and listen to my story.”

Faith pressed her lips together, but Eric wasn’t wrong. There really wasn’t much they could do to him at this point. They were at his mercy.

“Marcus Reeves and Kevin Walsh didn’t give a rat’s ass about us handlers,” Eric said. “They don’t care about all of the work we put into those dogs. They don’t care how much we bond with those dogs. They don’t care that when it’s all said and done, those dogs are as much ours as the Army’s. Now, lest you think I’m just whining for the hell of it, let me tell you why the Army should consider that.”

His eyelids started to droop, but just when Faith thought he had fallen asleep, his eyes flew open again. He took a shuddering breath and explained. “We know our dogs intimately. Those are our animals. We know them like we know our own selves. If we think that they can do something, they can do it. If we think they can’t, they can’t. If the Army wants them to do something, and we tell the Army that we need certain things to be in place to do it, it’s not because we’re cowards or selfish or stupid. It’s because we know that if the Army is going to maximize the potential of this tool, they need to protect and maintain that tool’s capability through rigorous training programs for dogs and handlers, and frequent reevaluations of the curriculum to update it as new information is made available.”

He coughed a little. “Marcus Reeves and Kevin Walsh didn’t push to update the curriculum. In fact, they tacitly defended the outdated curriculum that got Rex, two other dogs and seven soldiers killed. Rather than force the Army to seek accountability, they gave the Army a pardon. That just isn’t acceptable.”

He broke into a coughing fit, and Faith looked down at Turk. She tried to imagine losing him in battle and couldn’t make her mind picture that. What would she do if she did lose him?

She remembered the time she almost did lose him and the hate she had for the person responsible. It wasn’t hard to imagine someone committing murder over that. Not hard at all.

“The person you’re looking for,” Eric said, “Is Daniel Ross. He used to run a civilian training center for dogs, but it was shut down when in their great hypocrisy, Marcus Reeves and Kevin Walsh both reported him for his ‘violent’ methods.”

Faith’s eyes widened. “Really? When did this happen? Eric?”

A raspy snore told her that Eric had fallen asleep. She looked at Marcus, who shrugged. Faith decided that they had gotten as much as they needed. Eric was barely clinging to his last thread of life. They could let him die in peace.

And with any luck, they could stop this killer before anyone else died with violence.

CHAPTER TEN

“Go, Bruce!”

Bruce launched toward the target, and Technical Sergeant Maria Delgado admired as she always did the speed with which the big dog ran. He was nearly as heavy as she was, but she’d seen him top thirty miles an hour when he ran.

It wasn’t just his speed that made him impressive, though. He moved with such grace, his muscles rippling beautifully beneath his short coat. At four years old, Bruce was in the prime of his life, and there was something truly incredible about watching an animal achieve peak performance.

And she was responsible for that. Her careful attention to Bruce’s diet, exercise, and training had allowed him to achieve the pinnacle of canine capability. He had won four different K9 competitions in the Air Force and one joint competition, much to the delight of Colonel Braxton, who very much enjoyed lording that victory over the other branches’ representatives.

But as far as Maria was concerned, the best part of the job was the bond the two of them shared. She used to make fun of people who called their pets fur-babies, but she very much understood that feeling now. She would give her life for Bruce in a heartbeat.

A gust of wind chilled her and brought her thoughts back to the present. She shivered and looked ahead to where Bruce should be returning.

Except he wasn’t returning. She frowned. “Bruce? Bruce, come.”

No answer. A chill ran through her. She started jogging forward, pulling her flashlight from her pocket and switching it on. As she brought the flashlight to her chest, something smacked it hard, knocking it from her hand.

She cried out and dropped to the ground, an instinct retained from basic training. When she hit the ground, she saw a little red puffball in front of her that looked like a miniature cheerleader’s pompom. She followed the pompom to the ground, and her eyes widened. The pompom was connected to a dart that was now nearly buried in the snow.

She leaped to her feet and grabbed her flashlight. She started running forward, zigzagging to avoid being hit. Another dart whipped by her, missing her shoulder by millimeters.

“Bruce!” she shrieked. “Bruce, talk to me boy!” When Bruce still didn’t make any noise, anger joined her fear. “Whoever you are, you better pray to God that you didn’t hurt my dog!”

She caught movement ahead and lifted the flashlight to see a figure crouching next to Bruce’s still form. The figure was hurriedly loading another dart into a gun that looked like some civilian video gamer’s idea of what a sniper rifle should look like.

The figure lifted the weapon, and Jessica hurled the flashlight at his head. It connected just as he pulled the trigger, making a resounding crack and causing her attacker to jerk. The dart sailed high over Maria’s head.

She dropped to Bruce’s side and felt her dog’s pulse. It was there, but it was slow, and his body was limp. “Bruce! Come on, baby. It’s okay, Mama’s here.”

A groan told her that her attacker wasn’t as unconscious as she hoped he would be. She looked up just in time to see a boot heading for her face.

She threw herself backwards, but not enough to avoid the impact. Sparks flew in front of her eyes, and she stumbled to her feet. The attacker drove his fist toward Jessica’s midsection, but she was able to lift her knee and parry the blow.

She kept her leg in the air and kicked out, catching the attacker in his solar plexus. He grunted, but didn’t go down. Instead, he grabbed her ankle and her toes and twisted. She spun and fell onto her elbows in the snow, one of her legs lifted high. She kicked back desperately, but the attacker grabbed her other leg and held it aloft too.

She kicked and screamed for help, but there was no one nearby. The nearest people were on the other side of the airfield, and they were all asleep in their cozy beds. Maria never anticipated that she would need anything other than Bruce to protect her.

The attacker switched both of her legs to one arm and reached into his pocket. He was reaching for another tranquilizer dart, Maia guessed.

With one arm handling both legs, she was able to tear both of them from his grasp. He cursed and reached for her again, and she drove her foot into his groin. He released a soft cry, and she brought her right knee up and smashed his nose. He stiffened and straightened, and Maria backed away and got to her feet.

“You’d better back the hell off,” Maria warned. “Or I’ll finish what I started.”

The man looked at Maria. He wore a ski mask, so all she could see were his eyes, but that was enough to terrify her. There was nothing in that gaze, no emotion, no sanity. It was like looking into the eyes of a lizard.

“I’m going to finish what I started,” the attacker promised.

He lunged at Maria, and Maria sidestepped and brought her knee into his ribs. He grunted and fell, but the awkwardness of the blow caused Maria to stumble too. She scrambled to her feet, but when she did, she saw a pink puffball bouncing along the snow at her ankle.

The puffball was attached to a dart that was buried in her calf. She looked at her attacker, who got to his feet with a very recognizable emotion now in his eyes. Triumph.

“No,” she whispered.

She tried to run, but her legs gave out. Her head lolled to the side, and she saw Bruce’s chest rise and fall. She opened her mouth to call to him one last time, but she was unconscious before she could know if she succeeded.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

After leaving Eric Davidson, Faith and Marcus stopped for dinner at a burger joint across the street from the VA. While there, they looked up Daniel Ross.

It turned out that Eric was telling the truth. Daniel Ross was once the proprietor of Five Star Obedience School, but the school had been shut down three weeks ago after an investigation determined that Daniel encouraged and participated in abusive practices. The primary witnesses for the complaint were Thomas Reeves and Kevin Walsh.

Incredibly, Ross had found a job training security dogs within days after losing his business. Faith guessed that standards for security dog training were lower than standards for military and law enforcement K9s.

The facility he worked at was closed, but a call to the owner gave them Daniel’s address. They reached the apartment complex fifteen minutes after leaving the burger place. The complex was a typical two-story lot with two buildings facing each other across a central courtyard. The buildings were joined at the rear, giving the lot a U shape. Daniel’s apartment was on the left side on the second floor about halfway from the rear of the complex.

“Think he’ll actually be home?” Marcus asked as they approached his door.

“Well, he was at work earlier today, so he’s probably not dying of cancer,” Faith replied.

“Think he’ll have a—”

Marcus’s question was answered before he finished it when loud barking came from inside the apartment. Turk’s ears immediately flattened, and he bared his teeth and returned his own barking.

Marcus and Faith drew their weapons and shared a grim look with each other. If this ended up in a fight, it would become bloody fast.

“Hey!” a voice called from inside the apartment. “Caesar, calm down.”

Footsteps approached the door. “I know, I know,” the voice said again. “Stay calm. Let’s take a look here.”

The footsteps stopped, and a moment later, the voice said, “Holy shit.” Without opening the door, the voice called, “What the hell are you doing here?”

“Daniel Ross?” Marcus asked.

“None of your business. What are you doing here?”

“My name is Detective Marcus Waring. This is Special Agent Faith Bold of the FBI and her K9 unit, Turk. We need to ask you a few questions.”

“What? The FBI? Bullshit. I need to see some ID.”

“We’ll have an easier time showing it to you if you open the door,” Faith suggested.

The curtain in front of the window moved aside, and an irate man in his mid-forties glared at them and tapped the glass. White, snarling teeth set in the broad face of a mastiff shone underneath Ross’s arm. Turk jumped toward the window, but Faith pulled him back. “Hold here, boy,” she said. “Wait.”

She reached into her pocket and pulled out her FBI ID. She held it to the window, and Daniel examined it for a moment before nodding and turning to Waring. The stone-faced detective pointed at his badge. Daniel’s frown deepened, but a moment later, he pulled the door open. A chain stopped it after a few inches, and Daniel tried to keep his guard dog inside by sticking his leg in front of him. “What the hell is this about?”

“You want to put him away?” Faith asked, pointing to Caesar.

“You want to put him away?” Daniel replied, pointing to Turk, who was giving as good as he got in the nose department.

Faith’s eyes narrowed. “Mr. Ross, we need to talk to you regarding the murders of Master Sergeant Thomas Reeves and Staff Sergeant Kevin Walsh. We’re showing you the courtesy of allowing you time to put your dog away. I suggest you take advantage of that.”

Daniel’s eyes flew open when he heard those names. “Really? Reeves and Walsh are dead?”

“They’re dead,” Marcus confirmed, “and you had good reason to want him dead, didn’t you?”

Daniel sighed and ran his hands through his hair. “You couldn’t call ahead and let me know you were coming?”

“People have a tendency to run away when we do that,” Faith said. “We don’t like when that happens.”

Daniel rolled his eyes but admitted reluctantly. “Right. Okay, give me a minute. Caesar, knock it off!”

The big dog flinched and looked fearfully up at Daniel. Turk growled again, but this time, he looked at Daniel. Faith reached down and patted his shoulder to calm him, but she could understand the anger he felt.

He raised his hand, and Caesar flinched again and trotted away, his tail between his legs. Faith resisted an urge to tell Daniel that committing animal cruelty was an arrestable offense and followed Marcus and Turk into the house.

Caesar sat in a corner and curled up into a ball, keeping wide, terrified eyes on Daniel. Turk trotted to the dog, growling at Daniel on the way. Caesar cowered in front of Turk, but when Turk leaned over and licked his face, Caesar relaxed. Turk sat in front of the big Bullmastiff and glared at Daniel. It was a bit comical to see Turk protecting a dog half again his size, but Faith knew that if it came to a confrontation, there would be nothing comical about what Turk would do to Daniel.

“All right,” Daniel said. “So you think I killed them. Is that it?”

“Did you?” Marcus asked.

“If I say no, will you believe me?”

“Probably not,” Faith replied, “but maybe you’ll get lucky and convince us otherwise.”

Daniel scoffed. “Well, I didn’t. They fucked me, but if I killed them, I’d just be fucking myself, right?”

“That’s not the technical terminology,” Marcus replied drily, “but you’ve got the right idea.”

Daniel nodded. “Look, I don’t know what to tell you. I didn’t do shit to them.”

“You said they wronged you,” Faith interjected. “How so?”

“They reported me for animal cruelty. It’s bullshit. I was just teaching the dogs to be tough. What, do they want wimpy ass dogs that are gonna cringe and cower in combat?”

Faith looked pointedly at Caesar, who buried his muzzle in Turk’s chest and kept wary eyes on Daniel.

Daniel chuckled contemptuously. “Yeah, he’s a little bitch sometimes. But he listens to me. That’s the important thing. If he didn’t listen to me, he’d tear right through your little dog and right through the two of you.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure of that,” Faith challenged.

“When was the last time you spoke with Master Sergeant Reeves and Staff Sergeant Walsh?”

Daniel shrugged. “I call them every now and then, just to remind them that they’re both little bitches. I think the last time I did that was about two weeks ago.”

Faith and Marcus shared a look. “Are you saying that you harassed Master Sergeant Reeves and Staff Sergeant Walsh on a regular basis, Mr. Ross?”

Daniel shrugged again. With his arms crossed and his chin jutting forward, he looked like a toddler on the verge of a tantrum. “I was just telling them what they already knew deep down. Those guys are a disgrace to their service. The military needs men, not little pathetic assholes who cry every time they see a dog get smacked.”

Marcus nodded. “All right. In that case, Mr. Ross, please turn around and put your hands behind your back for me.”

Daniel flinched backwards. “What? No! I told you I didn’t kill them!”

“You admitted to criminally harassing them,” Marcus replied.

“Because I called them little bitches?”

“Believe it or not, the State of Minnesota frowns upon continued verbal harassment, especially when it involves harassment of a witness in a criminal investigation.”

“But that case was closed!” Daniel protested.

“And you were found guilty,” Marcus reminded him. “And those two were the principal witnesses for the prosecution. Harassment can occur at any time, even after a conviction. Now, turn around and put your hands behind your back, or we’re going to have to do this the hard way.”

Daniel’s eyes shifted to the left. He bared his teeth and growled, “Caesar! Sic ‘em!”

Caesar shrank back behind Turk. Turk licked his face again, then growled at Daniel. Faith smiled at the shocked Daniel. “Looks like Caesar’s made a new friend.”

“Worthless damned dog.”

Faith gave Daniel a humorless smile. “Don’t worry about him. We’ll contact a local shelter and make sure he’s placed somewhere he can be taken care of.”

Daniel frowned. “You can’t do that. He’s mine. That’s theft.”

“We’ll have animal control take him for the moment,” Marcus clarified. “And when a veterinary examination proves that you’ve abused him, we’ll put him up for adoption. In the meantime, I’ll have some officers come by to conduct a thorough search of your residence.”

“Oh my God, I didn’t kill anyone!”

“We’ll get to that,” Faith said. “In the meantime, you’ve definitely abused this dog. Coming from a dog owner myself, I find that behavior despicable, and I’m glad that we’ve caught you so we can help Caesar.”

Daniel’s frown deepened. “So I let you guys into my home and talk to you, and this is how you repay me?”

“We don’t owe you anything,” Faith retorted. “We owe our victims justice, and if you turn out to be their killer, we owe you a chance to get what you deserve.”

Daniel took a step toward Faith, but a growl from Turk and a heavy hand on his shoulder from Marcus dissuaded him from physical violence. It didn’t do anything to stop his words, though.

“You’re just a dumb little bitch. Like all of those fake-ass K9 handlers. You guys aren’t alphas. It’s no wonder your dogs walk all over you.”

Faith held Daniel’s eyes. “Turk, come.”

Turk immediately got to his feet and trotted to Faith. Still holding Daniel’s eyes, Faith said. “See that? My dog obeys me.”

Daniel reddened, but he couldn’t think of a response to that.

***

Daniel’s attitude didn’t improve on the ride to the station. He spent most of the ride shouting epithets and complaining about how those wimps were ruining everything for him. At one point, Turk—sitting on the other side of the divider in the rear seat—gave Faith a dry expression that caused her to laugh.

There was nothing funny about the murders they were investigating, though, and when they arrived at the police station, Faith wanted to jump into the interrogation right away. Marcus had another idea.

“Let him stew for a little while. We’ll follow up with animal control and the officers searching his apartment. That way when we start talking to him, we have hard evidence to back up our questions. Maybe when he’s faced with everything, he’ll be more likely to talk to us.”

Faith didn’t like the way that was going. “Sure, if he expects a plea deal.”

Marcus met her eyes. “The D.A.’s office might offer him one.”

“That’s bullshit!” Faith exploded. “What, because he admits to killing people, that makes it better somehow?”

Faith had never been a fan of plea deals. In her mind, if you committed a crime, you did the time. There was no offering lesser punishments just because someone admitted to being a piece of shit. True, offering plea deals sometimes got confessions out of criminals, but Faith would rather use police work to find proof than offer someone a lighter sentence.

“There’s only one killer,” she protested. “I could see offering a plea deal if we needed to find an accomplice, but it’s just him.”

“Actually, it’s not just him. I talked with the coroner last night. The specific compound used to sedate the victims can only be purchased by veterinarians.”

Faith blinked. “Then why aren’t we looking into local vets?”

“We are. You and I are following the stronger leads, but I have officers following up with vets in the area. This is a team effort, Special Agent. Back to my point, if a local vet is involved, it’s likely that he or she supplied the shooter with the drug. If Daniel can help us find out who that is, then we can bring them to justice as well.”

Faith pressed her lips together and nodded curtly. She still didn’t like it. She would much rather both of them suffered the maximum punishment allowable by law, but she understood the importance of getting everyone involved with these crimes off the street as fast as possible.

The longer they waited, the more likely it was that they’d end up with another victim.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Faith sipped her coffee and looked at Turk. Turk was looking out of the window of the breakroom at the lake in the distance, visible from the glow of the streetlamps on the ice. Turk had never been an enthusiastic swimmer the way many dogs were, but he enjoyed the occasional walk along the shores of the Delaware and the summer beach trips to the Atlantic Ocean an hour east of the city.

It wouldn’t be a good idea to take him to the water in Duluth in late January, though. Even with his thick fur, she doubted he would enjoy a dunk in the frigid lake. Not that she could take him swimming anyway with the lake frozen over.

She sighed and sipped more of her coffee. “Well, that was good for thirty seconds of distraction,” she grumbled.

Marcus was in his office completing the paperwork for the arrest and waiting to hear back from animal control and the officers searching Daniel’s apartment. Faith and Turk were just waiting. If there was anything Faith hated, it was waiting. Her only consolation was that Daniel was also waiting, and he was doing it shackled to a chair with no one to keep him company.

Maybe this would work out. Maybe they’d get lucky and get a confession without having to offer him a less painful punishment. She could always hope.

Her phone buzzed. Turk pricked up his ears, and Faith said, “It’s Michael. Want to say hi?”

Turk got to his feet and trotted over. Faith put the phone on speaker and said, “Hey, Michael. Turk wants to say hi.”

Turk barked, and Michael chuckled. “Hey, buddy. How are you handling the cold?”

Turk barked again, and Faith translated. “He says, ‘I’m handling it better than Mommy.’ Seriously, though, this place is colder than Alaska.”

“Really? Damn.”

“The ninth circle of damn.”

“What?”

“It’s an Inferno reference.”

“Do I look like I play video games?”

Faith gave up on the reference. “Never mind. Why did you call me?”

“Am I on speaker?”

“Yeah.”

“Take me off.”

Faith’s heartbeat quickened slightly. “Okay. Say goodbye, Turk.”

Turk barked goodbye, then trotted back to the window. Faith turned off the speaker and brought the phone to her ear. “Do you have news on the Messenger?” she asked quietly.

Michael sighed. “No. The lead turned out to be a dead end.”

Faith’s shoulders slumped. “Got it. Not a killer, just a freak, huh?”

“Pretty much. She told me her marriage was boring, so she fantasized about West dominating her.”

“Okay, I don’t need the details,” Faith said. “But you’re sure she’s not our killer?”

“I’m sure. We confirmed her alibi for the Boss’s death. I suppose we could look for alibis for the other murders, but there’s no doubt this is a dead end. If she didn’t kill the Boss, then she’s not the messenger.”

Faith slumped further. “Yeah, you’re right. Crap. I really thought you had something.”

“I thought so, too. Now we’re back to square one. All of that for nothing.”

Faith sighed. Then she cocked her head. “It might not be nothing. I think you actually might be onto something.”

“I mean… I’m willing to hear you out, but I can’t think of where else to look right now. I guess we could do a general survey of the population, but I don’t see many people honestly answering the question, ‘Do you admire Franklin West enough to brutally kill multiple people to torment the FBI agent he hates the most?’.”

“No, but there might be another way to reach the general public and draw our specific baddie out into the open.”

“Oh? And how do you propose to do that?”

“We publish the letters.”

Michael was silent for a long moment. “Uh, if we do that, it’ll get a lot of people in a lot of trouble. Specifically me.”

“Not if we do it the right way.”

Faith got to her feet and began pacing. The gears in her head were whirring as she thought of a plan to lure the Messenger into the open.

“And what’s the right way?” Michael asked.

“You come clean with everyone. You tell Desrouleaux that you talked to West. When he starts flying off of the handle, you show him the evidence you found. You also call your warden friend and tell him that you’re going to publish the letters.”

“That’s another sticking point with me,” Michael said. “I promised him that I wouldn’t expose him. I know it wasn’t a legal promise, but I did give my word, and if we start breaking our promises to CIs, then we make a lot of things harder for ourselves and the Bureau.”

“You won’t have to expose him. Your guy’s story will be that he came across the letters and learned that West was having a clandestine conversation with this woman.”

“Who we can’t name.”

“Who you won’t need to name. The Warden did the right thing and brought it to the attention of the FBI who chose to publish it to alert the public to the fact that there is an admirer of West out there who’s willing to kill to get his attention.”

“Yes, but they’re killing to get your attention.”

“I know that, but this will do two things for us. First, it will make West look even worse, which will be really nice going into this trial. Second, when the Messenger learns that there are other admirers competing for West’s attention, he or she might make a mistake and reveal themselves.”

“Yes, by trying to kill you.”

“Let them try,” Faith said grimly. “I beat West when he tried to kill me. Let’s see if they can do better.”

“Yeah, I really hate that idea. But… it has its merits. I’ll talk to Desrouleaux. If we can get it out there, then maybe we’ll get lucky. In the meantime, please be careful and don’t try to go cowboy. We don’t want you to use yourself as bait.”

“The good news is that I’m halfway across the country. I can’t be bait, but the idea of me can.”

Michael chuckled. “Well, keep yourself and your ideas safe. I’ll get the ball rolling and let you know if anything comes out of the woodwork.”

“Awesome. And thank you. I really appreciate you doing this for me. You’re a good friend.”

“I try. How’s the Dart Gun case going?”

She grimaced. “Please don’t give this killer a name.”

“It will remain in between us, but I don’t know, the shorthand is growing on me.”

Faith rolled her eyes. “Well, with any luck, he’s in custody right now.”

“Oh yeah? Already?”

“With any luck. We have a disgruntled former K9 instructor who lost his business after our two witnesses reported him for animal cruelty. He’s stewing in the interrogation room right now.”

“Ooh, yum. I love murderer stew.”

She chuckled. “Try that one on Ellie later. I’m sure she’ll appreciate that more than I did.”

“Yeah, I’m kind of in the hot seat with her. She didn’t like me putting my career at risk sneaking around with this.”

Faith’s smile vanished. “Yeah, I don’t blame her. And you really shouldn’t have. I appreciate it, but—”

“Oh, go to hell. You’d have done the same thing for me. Ellie wants me to quit the FBI and get a job bagging groceries or taking drive-thru orders because it’s safer than what I do now. She understands that I’m not going to do that, and I understand that I can’t make her any happier about the job I have. So we compromise. That’s how marriages work.”

“I see. Thank you so much for the marriage counseling.”

“Have you talked to David recently?”

She rolled her eyes. “Yes, we talk at night before I go to sleep. Would you like to hear all of the spicy details?”

“And get in even more trouble with Ellie? No, thank you. Just making sure you’re not forgetting about the poor guy.”

She felt a touch of irritation at that. She’d shared some of her fears about her relationship with Michael, and now she was regretting that. “I’m not. We’ve worked through all of the stuff I told you earlier. We’re good now.”

That was a lie, but she didn’t want to have this conversation right now.

“Good. I wasn’t trying to bring up old news. Just making conversation. I miss you.”

She relaxed a little. “I miss you too. It’s a lot harder working cases without you here to question every decision I make. I’m not even being completely sarcastic when I say that.”

“It helps to have a devil’s advocate. I miss having a little firecracker ready to explode any time there’s even a hint of a lead.”

She smiled wryly. “You probably don’t want to call me a firecracker in front of anyone else.”

“Oh, whatever. I’m too old to censor my speech anymore. Everyone else can censor their mind.”

She chuckled. “That’s a difficult thing to do around you.”

“That didn’t come out the way you thought it did, but I can tell you’re a little distracted, so let’s just say I was really embarrassed by your excellent zinger.”

“Thank you. I appreciate that.”

“All right. Take care, Faith. Seriously. And good luck on this case. Once you wrap it up, you’ll be able to make a strong case for coming back to Philadelphia.”

“You think so? You don’t think Gardner will try to pawn me off on another field office?”

“Between you and me, I think Gardner’s days here are numbered. She’s a good agent, but the cracks are showing. I’m pretty sure a lot of the reason she doesn’t like you is because your actions are exposing that. The Boss knew how to manage you to keep you within shouting distance of FBI policy while still allowing you to take your own approach to solving crimes. Gardner doesn’t know how to adjust her style to her agents, and that’s taking a toll. Did you know she’s having us do bullpens?”

“Seriously? Like in cop shows?”

“Yep. Every morning at the start of the shift, we all get together in a conference room and run through every single case and any notes we have on it. Then Her Royal Majesty offers her opinions on our work along with pointers and sometimes even instructions that sound like something out of a first-year criminal justice course.”

Faith winced. “Ouch. That sounds painful.”

“It’s annoying as hell is what it is. If you ask me, she’s got a long way to go before she’s ready to run a field office.”

Faith smiled. “Well, there you go. They might talk to you about the job after all.”

“God, I hope not.”

“You could always say no.”

“Yeah, that’s true.”

There was the tiniest breath of a pause before Michael answered, just enough to let Faith know that a part of him was considering the job. She wasn’t sure how she felt about that, but she didn’t want to wrestle with that right now.

Fortunately, duty called and pulled her mind back to the present. Marcus opened the door and lifted a hand to Faith. “All right. We’ve got some answers.”

Faith gave him a thumbs up, then said, “I have to go, Michael. I have an interrogation to do.”

“Super jealous. Take lots of pictures.”

She laughed. “Whatever that means. Bye, buddy.”

“Goodbye.”

She hung up, and Marcus asked, “Boyfriend?”

“No, partner. So what do you have for me?”

Marcus grinned. “Oh, so much.”

Faith’s spirits lifted a little more. If Marcus had evidence linking Daniel to the crime, then this could be the first case in years where Faith was able to catch a killer before he claimed another victim. Faith didn’t believe in omens, but considering the more vicious murderer prowling the streets of her hometown, she’d happily take that as a positive sign.

Maybe the shadow Jethro Trammell had cast over the world was finally lifting.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Daniel was slumped over the table in the interrogation room when the three investigators walked in. His head lifted, and he stuck his lower lip out in a disgusting approximation of a pout. “What the hell’s taking so long? You guys left me in here for hours.”

“It took a while to search your apartment,” Marcus explained, taking a seat across from Daniel. “You had a lot of hidden compartments there.”

Daniel paled. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Ooh,” Faith said. “Playing stupid won’t work anymore. See, we have a lot of pictures now. Also fingerprints and an astonishingly large amount of astonishingly illegal drugs.”

Daniel swallowed. “I want a lawyer.”

“That’s probably a good idea,” Marcus said, laying out the pictures his officers had taken. “These ones here are the scars and bruises we found on Caesar.”

Turk growled low in his throat at that. Daniel flinched and said, “You have to show dogs who’s Boss. They’d tear you apart in a second if you didn’t. You have to be the alpha.”

“I think we already proved that your methods don’t work,” Faith reminded him.

“Of greater concern to me,” Marcus added, “are the copious amounts of heroin, methamphetamine, and cocaine. We’re working with the DEA to tally the total amount, but we’re fairly confident that we’re going to be looking at seven figures’ worth. Yours, or your clients? We know that you’ve been training security dogs for a lot of warehouses along the shore. Do you distribute for them, too?”

“Lawyer,” Daniel said hoarsely. He was white as a sheet now and trembling a little.

“Sure, sure, we’ll get there. I haven’t shown you my favorite part yet.”

Marcus pulled several more photos out of an envelope and laid them on the table. Faith felt a leap of triumph when she saw the darts and air guns in the images.

“That’s not what it looks like!” Daniel cried out.

All trace of bravado was gone from his face. He looked terrified, which was understandable considering how much trouble he now found himself in.

Marcus frowned. “It doesn’t look like hundreds of tranquilizer darts loaded with ketamine and xylazine to you? It sure looks like it to me. And being a bit of a gun enthusiast myself, I appreciate the attempt made to emulate the Heckler & Koch MR556 A4, but it’s fairly easy to tell that this weapon is designed to fire darts and not bullets.”

“That’s for the dogs!” Daniel insisted. “It’s not for people!”

“So this won’t knock a person out?”

“No! I mean, yes, it will, but that’s not what it’s supposed to be used for.”

“Yes, and heroin, cocaine, and methamphetamine aren’t supposed to be used to get people high,” Faith pointed out. “Nor are they supposed to be stored in a private residence. So I have a hard time believing that you’re all that hung up on how things are supposed to be used.”

“Yeah, but… Look, I didn’t kill anyone!”

Marcus sighed and leaned back in his chair. “Here’s the deal, Daniel. We have two dead victims and two K9 victims who are recovering from the effects of a powerful sedative. We have a guy who was convicted of animal cruelty, thanks to the testimony of our victims. Then we go to this guy’s apartment and find millions of dollars worth of illegal drugs along with hundreds of darts that contain the very same compound used to knock out our victims along with long-range delivery systems in the form of air guns.”

Daniel was shaking badly right now. He swallowed and said, “I didn’t kill anyone.”

“You can see how we have a hard time believing you, right?” Faith said. “I mean… this looks bad, Daniel.”

“I know,” he said, lifting a shaking hand to his head. “I know, but I didn’t do it.”

Marcus leaned forward and folded his hands. “I’m gonna level with you, Daniel. We have enough to convict you right now. We’ve got motive, we’ve got a history of harassment, we have the murder weapons, and the substance used to restrain your victims.”

That wasn’t exactly true. Marcus hadn’t mentioned the knife used to slice the victim’s throats. Remembering that caused a seed of doubt to germinate in Faith’s head.

“Minnesota doesn’t have the death penalty, but it does have life in prison,” Marcus continued. “I don’t like to speak ill of our prisons, but I’ve seen them, and believe me, it’s not a place you want to spend your life. I’m not going to lie to you. You’re going to go to prison. However, we can reduce that time considerably if you help us out.”

Faith’s lips thinned until they nearly disappeared, but she held her tongue. They had enough to convict him without a plea deal, but the presence of all of those drugs definitely threw a wrench into things. Daniel’s murder of the two K9 handlers was probably a personal vendetta, but if he was also involved in organized crime, then Marcus couldn’t think only of the two who had died already. An operation of this kind threatened many more lives.

“If you can give us the names of the people you work with and tell us where to find them, the prosecutor will look very kindly on that. We might even be able to shrink your felony drug conviction a little and start talking about ten to twenty instead of forty to life.”

Faith pressed her nails into her palm. That was far more of a plea deal than she expected. Then again, it was possible that Marcus was lying to Daniel to get him to talk. Contrary to popular belief, the police were allowed to lie to suspects. She did want to add one thing to the conversation, though.

“And you need to tell us what happened to Thomas Reeves and Kevin Walsh. You need to tell us the truth.”

Daniel swallowed. He looked between the three of them. Turk growled at him, and he whimpered. Faith felt a touch of satisfaction at hearing him whimper in front of a dog instead of the other way around.

Finally, Daniel slumped. “Okay. I can give you names. I need some assurance before I do, though. Legal assurances.”

“We can talk about that,” Marcus said. “I’ll pass along to the DA that you’re willing to help us out. They’ll be having a lot of long conversations with you. You’re doing the right thing, believe me. Not just morally but for yourself.”

“Reeves and Walsh, Daniel,” Faith reminded him. “We need the truth about what happened to them.”

Daniel released a hollow laugh. “Well, I really can’t help you with that. I didn’t kill them.”

Faith sighed and rubbed the bridge of her nose. “Not to be that girl, Daniel, but the little plea deal you’re making is contingent on your honesty about the murders. The FBI is involved in this investigation, and we want justice for the two dead men.”

“I know. I really didn’t kill them.”

The seed of doubt in Faith’s mind blossomed. “Can you confirm your whereabouts last night?”

“Last night?” His eyes widened with hope. “Yeah. I was at my girlfriend’s house!”

“What?” Marcus said. Apparently, he was just as surprised as Faith that this plankton had a girlfriend.

“Yeah! You can call her. I’ll give you her number. She’ll tell you we were together.”

“Anywhere in public?” Faith asked. “Anywhere someone who doesn’t have an interest in protecting you might confirm it?”

His face fell. “No, but… she doesn’t know about all the drugs yet, so she might not know that you’re calling because you suspect me of a crime.”

“I can’t imagine she won’t put two and two together when she hears that the police are calling for you,” Marcus said.

“Well… crap. That’s the best I can do.”

He slumped. Marcus sighed and looked at Faith. “All right, Mr. Ross. We’ll talk to the DA, but without a good alibi and with all of the other evidence—”

“Hold on,” Faith said. “I have an idea. Give me her phone number.”

Daniel provided the number while Marcus looked questioningly at Faith. Once she had the number, she left the room, Turk and Marcus following her.

“What are you thinking?” Marcus asked.

“I’m going to pretend to be his wife. See if we can scare the truth out of her.”

“You don’t think that would just make her pretend she didn’t see him?”

“Worst case scenario, we’re back where we started.”

Marcus shrugged, and Faith dialed the number from the police line. A moment later, a wary voice replied, “Hello?”

“Yeah, is this Olivia?” Faith said in a clipped tone.

“Um… yes? Who is this?”

“This is Shawna. Daniel’s wife.”

Marcus looked unsure, but Faith had a plan. “Hello? I know you’re still there, bitch.”

“Um… I don’t know a Daniel,” Olivia said. The trembling in her tone told Faith that was a lie.

“Really? So I didn’t see you screwing him through your window last night?”

“What? I… How did…”

“Yeah, I have pictures. I know you’ve been sleeping with him. Do yourself a favor and back off of my man before I find a reason to show up and deal with this myself.”

“I wasn’t with him last night.”

A spark of hope kindled in Faith’s chest. “Yeah? That wasn’t you I saw with your legs wrapped around his waist and that stupid look on your face? You sure? Because I can come over and look at the picture and see if it matches, and if it does—”

“Okay. Okay. I’m sorry. I didn’t know he was married.”

And just like that, Faith’s hope died. Daniel Ross wasn’t their killer.

“Really? What did you think that wedding ring was for?”

“He didn’t have a wedding ring. He told me he was single. He was hot, and he… well we… I’m really sorry. I won’t see him again. I promise. I would never sleep with someone’s husband.”

Faith sighed heavily. “Figures he’d lie to yet another woman. Girl, do yourself a favor and do your homework before you let some random asshole into your bed. I’ll do myself a favor and divorce this son of a bitch.”

“Okay. I will. I’m so sorry.”

Faith hung up and sighed. “Well, so much for that.”

“That was extremely illegal what you just did,” Marcus pointed out.

“I don’t know about that. It was bending the rules for sure, but considering that Daniel’s now a known gangster, I think we can get away with it. Besides, it cleared him as a suspect for the murders, so I doubt he’ll complain.”

“It also ruined his relationship.”

“Somehow I don’t see the two of them surviving what’s about to be all over the news,” Faith retorted.

“Yeah, maybe not,” Marcus admitted. “Well, we got a pretty serious bad guy off of the streets, and if he plays ball with the DA, we’ll get even more. I know it’s not the bad guy we wanted, but it’s still a good night’s work.”

Faith crossed her arms and looked out at the night sky. “I’m just worried about our killer enjoying another good night’s work.”

As happened all too often in Faith’s career, her worst fears came true a moment later. The door opened, and a wide-eyed desk officer reported, “Detective Waring? We just got a call from the Air National Guard base. They found one of their K9 units unconscious. His handler is missing.”

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

The first gray of dawn was starting to peek over the eastern horizon when Faith and Marcus arrived at the Duluth National Air Guard Base. The night had moved far faster than Faith expected.

So had their killer. While Faith and Marcus were busy inadvertently busting a drug distributor, the killer was taking his next victim.

It wasn’t hard to find the crime scene. All they had to do was follow the flashing lights of the military police vehicles.

They were met outside by a uniformed military police officer, a master sergeant with a bushy handlebar mustache and a look of barely checked rage. Faith didn’t blame him. Someone had invaded a U.S. military base and taken one of their own right under their noses.

The master sergeant introduced himself as Master Sergeant Hostler. He gestured to the scene behind him. “Everything went down over here. My patrol officer heard a shout and ran over here to find the dog unconscious and the handler gone.”

“When did this happen?”

Hostler’s lips thinned. “Four hours ago. We’ve spent all four of those hours scouring every inch of this base. We also contacted the Airport Police next door to check the airport. We haven’t found anything. Not a trace of Sergeant Delgado or her captor.”

Faith frowned. They had spent all of that time pursuing a false lead meanwhile the real killer had just taken a victim? “Why didn’t you call us? This is an FBI case in partnership with Duluth PD.”

“We wanted to find her,” Hostler countered. “If there was even a chance she was still alive, we wanted to take that chance.”

“We could have helped,” Faith insisted. “We could have put out an APB. We could have gotten the other branches’ MPs involved.”

Hostler squared up defiantly. “I wanted every available officer working to find Sergeant Delgado. As long as there’s a chance she’s alive, that’s our priority.”

“We could have all looked for her,” Faith said through gritted teeth.

“That’s enough,” Marcus said firmly. “Now is not the time to worry about blame. Master Sergeant Hostler, please give me the full name of the missing airman.”

Hostler and Faith both took deep breaths, then stepped away from each other. Hostler turned to Marcus and replied, “Technical Sergeant Maria Delgado. She’s the best K9 handler in the entire Air Force. She’s won the Air Force K9 competition four years in a row and won the DoD invitational on top of that.”

“Where’s her dog,” Faith asked.

“In an ambulance on his way to an animal hospital. Actually, he’s probably there already.”

Faith nodded. “I want the results of their examination the moment they have them. We need to confirm that this is the same guy.”

Hostler’s brow furrowed. “What for? Why wouldn’t it be the same person?”

“We just found a guy with a bunch of dart guns and tranquilizer darts,” Faith replied. “But we were interrogating him while you were searching for Sergeant Delgado, so I’m going to go out on a limb and say it’s not him. However, we’re exploring the possibility that there’s more than one shooter.”

Hostler sighed. “Jesus. How many?”

“We don’t know. Possibly still one, but I need to know what her dog was shot with. And Master Sergeant, I’d appreciate it if you didn’t feel a need to question every decision I make.”

Hostler turned beet red, the flush clear even in the low light. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Can you describe Sergeant Delgado?” Marcus asked.

“Five-five, one hundred thirty pounds, athletic build.” Marcus lifted an eyebrow, and Hostler’s flush deepened. “She is also the top boxer in the Air Force. I’ve seen her on the cover of Air Force Magazine.”

Marcus lifted his hands halfway to show it was all the same to him. “Hair and eye color?”

“Brown and brown. She was wearing her battle dress uniform and her winter coat and gloves.”

“Wonderful. I’ll put the APB out.”

“Who called it in?” Faith asked. “Are they here?”

“Wayne!” Hostler barked.

A young MP jobbed over to them, stopping ten feet away and saluting crisply. “Yes, Master Sergeant?”

Hostler pointed at Faith. “The lady wants to ask you some questions.”

“Special Agent Faith Bold,” Faith said. “Can you walk me through exactly what happened?”

Wayne nodded. “Yes, ma’am. I was patrolling the exercise field when I saw a flash of light.”

Faith tilted her head. “A flash of light?”

“Yes, ma’am. Like from a flashlight beam.” He moved his own flashlight in a half-circle up and then down. “Like that.”

“I see. So you saw a flash of light. You heard a shout too, right?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Male or female?”

“I believe male, ma’am.”

Faith shared a look with Marcus, who was on the phone with dispatch. That shout had likely come from their killer. “What did you do then?”

“I radioed in the call and waited for backup.”

Faith frowned, and Hostler said, “It’s our policy that our officers always wait for backup.”

Faith had never been fond of waiting for backup herself, but she couldn’t fault Wayne for following his orders. She could, however, fault the people who gave him those orders.

“Is there a reason you have your officers patrol solo when they can’t do anything about a crime in progress?”

“Would you like to enlist?” Hostler retorted. “We could use more personnel.”

Faith, let it pass. “How long did it take backup to arrive?”

“Three minutes. But…”

Wayne looked sideways at Hostler. Faith read between the lines and said, “Walk with me.”

Wayne nodded and followed Faith away from the cluster. Turk trotted ahead of them. He lowered his nose to the ground, then looked at Faith.

“Go ahead, boy,” Faith said.

Turk dipped his head, then started off. Faith turned to Wayne. “You didn’t wait for backup.”

“No, ma’am. Whatever was happening, I thought it was happening right then. I ran for the scene, but I was too late. Whoever was there was gone. I called for backup after I got here.”

Faith nodded approvingly. “Good man. What did you see when you arrived?”

“I saw the K9 on his side. He was breathing, but he wasn’t breathing well. His pulse was thready, and his eyes were open, but he wasn’t seeing anything.”

Faith frowned. That was different from the previous K9s. They had been asleep, but these symptoms sounded like respiratory distress. “What breed is Delgado’s unit?”

“Dobermann, ma’am.”

“You don’t need to call me ma’am. A Dobermann, you said?”

“Yes, m—yes.”

Interesting. Dobermanns were big dogs. On average, they were twenty pounds bigger than German Shepherds and forty pounds bigger than Malinois. Maybe the killer had increased the dose and overshot the mark. Or maybe there was more than one shooter, and this one wasn’t as knowledgeable as the last one.

“There was something else, ma—Special Agent.”

“What’s that?”

Turk barked, and looked at them, wagging his tail. Often, that motion meant happiness, just like in any other dog, but Faith knew Turk very well and recognized this movement as one of concern. She ran to him, Wayne following. When she reached him, she had a good idea of what Wayne had found.

“As you can see, there’s not enough blood for someone to have died here,” Wayne replied. “Just the little bit here, and some drops scattered over about a fourteen-foot radius.”

She raised an eyebrow. “About a fourteen-foot radius?”

“I’m good at spatial awareness, ma’am. I’m planning to become a drone operator eventually.”

“You’re sure? I think you could have a good career in law enforcement.”

He glanced back at the main group, where Hostler was arguing with Marcus about something. “I just don’t enjoy working with Master Sergeant Hostler. Please don’t tell him.”

“I might tell him he’s an asshole,” she replied drily, “but I’ll leave your name out of it. So you responded to the scene and found blood but no footprints?”

He shook his head. “A lot of Delgado’s footprints, but none of her attacker. It looked as though he’d tied ropes around his boots.”

“Ropes?”

“Yes. It’s a trick I’ve seen some people use when infiltrating enemy territory before. Well, I haven’t seen it, but my brother is a Green Beret. He told me that in Syria, the ISIS fighters would tie cords or strips of cloth over their shoes to make them quieter when they were sneaking into urban areas or military outposts.”

Faith nodded. She’d heard of similar tricks. “And there’s no sign of vehicle tracks anywhere?”

“No.”

That almost certainly meant a male. It was over a mile to the nearest exit, and while a large woman theoretically could carry a woman Delgado’s size out of the base, more than likely, the killer would be a man.

That meant it was possible there was only one killer after all, the same man who had killed Walsh and left bootprints. Maybe he’d learned his lesson and been more careful this time. Or maybe there was more than one killer, and the mastermind behind all of this was some evil vet or K9 supervisor.

“Faith?” Marcus called.

Faith turned to the detective, who jogged closer, his breath escaping in small jets of steam as he approached. Faith was too focused on the case to feel the cold before, but now it seared her lungs and chilled her face.

Marcus slowed and said, “We just got a preliminary toxicology report on the dog. The compound was different this time.”

Faith’s eyes widened. “What was it?”

“An experimental compound that U.S. military veterinarians are testing in limited quantities. It contains phenobarbital and diazepam mixed with a synthetic compound that increases the speed of absorption. Dr. Parker confirmed that particular ingredient is identical to the compound that made the other darts work faster.”

“So why the new compound?” Faith asked. “Why phenobarbital and diazepam and not ketamine and xylazine?”

“Well, there are a few possibilities. The first is that xylazine is a drug that only has veterinary applications, whereas both phenobarbital and diazepam are in widespread use with human patients. It could be easier for the shooter to obtain those drugs.”

Faith shook her head. “No, that still leaves the accelerating chemical. I can’t imagine that’s something you can get off the shelf.”

“It’s not,” Marcus confirmed. “Dr. Parker said that it’s possible to synthesize it, but it would take days and involve about nine pounds of ingredients for every CC of drug.”

“So it’s not likely the shooter had to pick and choose the easiest drugs to get to,” Faith summarized.

“And that leaves the other possibility,” Marcus continued. “There’s more than one shooter, and they each happened to have different darts on hand.”

Faith bit her lip softly. “I was thinking the same thing, but that still leaves the question of how they got the darts in the first place. Even if we assume that there’s an armchair quarterback running this whole thing, how does he or she have access to two different experimental drugs?”

“I have a hypothesis,” Marcus said. “I was thinking about it when I learned about the drugs in Daniel Ross’s apartment. Ross is the distributor, right? He receives drugs from producers and then gives them to sellers who deliver the individual products to buyers. I think our guy might be the distributor.”

“You think that the person behind this works maybe for a drug company, and he’s lifting some of the tranquilizers?”

“It’s possible. The primary connection between both compounds is the accelerating chemical. The primary difference is that one is a formula preferred by civilian agencies while the other is an experimental formula being tested by the military.”

“So this guy is working for the pharmaceutical company, skimming a quantity of each drug that’s probably within the margin of error and then hiring people to use it to kill other people?”

Marcus frowned. “It does kind of fall apart at the end there. That’s a lot of margin for error.”

“That doesn’t mean you’re wrong, though,” Faith mused. “It could still be one killer.” She nodded. “Occam’s razor. The simplest solution is usually right. We have a killer who wants people dead and has access to both drugs but has to be careful about how much of each he uses.”

“That sounds like a working lead to me,” Marcus concurred.

Fatih nodded. “All right. If you don’t mind, I’d like to rely on your expertise to lead the search party while I follow up on this new angle.”

“I’ll help,” Wayne volunteered. “I can get you access to anywhere you might need to go on the base. MPs can use emergency permissions in cases like this.”

“That’s fine with me,” Marcus said. “Thank you. Faith, you don’t think she’s still alive, do you?”

Faith doubted very strongly that Maria Delgado would be found alive, but she didn’t want to say that in front of Wayne. Instead, she said, “I think we shouldn’t lose hope. I’ve found people in dire situations like this one before. We don’t give up until it’s over.”

Marcus nodded grimly. “All right.” He handed Faith the keys. “I’ll get a vehicle from the base. If Hostler wants to pitch a fit, I’ll go over his head.”

“Thank you.” She called for Turk. “Come on, boy. We’re going back to the precinct.”

Turk dipped his head and followed, his head hung low. He was clearly upset that he hadn’t found the killer yet. She reached down and ruffled his fur as they walked back to the police truck. “I know boy. I’m upset, too.”

She’d put a brave face on it, but she was upset. Just when she thought she was going to escape a case without another victim. She could almost see West’s taunting grin.

That image made her wonder if, a thousand miles away, another killer was creating his or her latest “masterpiece.”

Faith felt an awful lot like a wounded animal in the dark surrounded by wolves.

No, not wolves. Hyenas. Hyenas cackling madly as they circled and waited for the right moment to rush in and tear their victim limb from limb.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Faith sighed and leaned forward, rubbing her temples with her hands. Turk slept next to her, and she felt a touch of jealousy. Dogs, in many ways, had the easiest lives. Turk could essentially sleep anytime he wasn’t actively using his nose to hunt for clues. Meanwhile, Faith was on the back end of another all-nighter, once more greeting the sun with zero hours of sleep and a groggy mind only barely kept alert enough to function by copious amounts of caffeine.

I’ll probably die of a heart attack before I reach fifty.

She sipped more coffee anyway. She needed to find a missing woman, or if nothing else, find the person killing K9 handlers and make sure he couldn’t kill anyone else.

She wondered why the killer hadn’t finished Delgado off the way he had the others. That supported the hypothesis that there was more than one killer. It was possible this one liked to beat people instead of use knives.

Or maybe it was possible that the killer hadn’t been successful at keeping the element of surprise. If Delgado had seen him coming, and if she was a boxing champion, then it was likely she had put up more resistance than the others. It might even be the killer’s blood they had seen and not hers. Wayne had heard a male shouting, not a female. Maybe he’d heard the aftermath of one of Delgado’s blows finding its mark.

Faith hoped so. If Delgado was dead, it probably didn’t make a difference if she’d gotten a shot in or not, but it would make Faith feel better to think that she’d gotten her licks in before she’d lost her life.

She stiffened as she realized they’d missed an opportunity. She quickly dialed Marcus.

“Hey, Faith,” the detective replied, sounding as weary as she felt. “No sign of Delgado yet. We’re looking still, but wherever the killer took her, he did a good job of hiding it. Other than the scene of the scuffle, there doesn’t seem to be any sign of either of them.”

“Have the MPs search the exercise field,” she replied. “Tell them to look for darts. I think the killer wasn’t able to sedate Delgado right away. I think she might have tried to defend herself, and the noise of that encounter was what alerted Wayne to the danger.”

“Oh shit,” Marcus said. “You’re right. I’ll have them look right now. We might be able to get fingerprints off of the darts. I’ll see if we can get DNA from the blood in the snow too.”

“See if you can also find out who manufactured the darts,” Faith said.

“Right. I’ll start that right away. You’re a genius, Faith.”

Faith smiled when Marcus hung up. It was encouraging to hear such praise, especially since Faith didn’t feel like she was doing a very good job at the moment. That could just be her exhaustion talking. It was getting harder to pull these irregular hours the older she got.

“Well, back to work, Special Agent.”

Turk raised one ear, but when Faith reached down and scratched behind it, he lowered the ear and returned to sleep. She chuckled at her fur baby and wondered how, on Earth, anyone could hurt a dog. They were such good creatures.

Then again, the killer wasn’t hurting dogs. He, she or they were being very careful not to hurt the dogs. Yes, they’d messed up the dose this time, but the dog was still alive, and the mistake—if one was made—was a fairly innocent one.

She poured herself a fresh cup of coffee and returned to work. Finding manufacturers of ketamine, xylazine, diazepam and phenobarbital was easy. Finding manufacturers of the synthetic hormone that was used to accelerate the drug’s action was next to impossible.

But that drug was the key. Finding that substance would tell Faith where to look for their killer. Judging by how difficult it was to get any information at all, Faith guessed that finding the manufacturer would likely provide them with a narrow choice of suspects. That could make it easier to find the exact person they needed.

At the moment, she was on a DoD server, trying to use her FBI credentials to discover which pharmaceutical companies were currently providing veterinary drugs to the United States.

That was tedious work. The Department of Defense was understandably reticent to share all of that information online, and it took Faith several tries to get someone on the phone. Once she did have someone on the phone, she was told that she didn’t have the clearance to know the answer to her questions. Threats to superior officers fell on deaf ears.

So now she was back on the server but using a backdoor so she wouldn’t be detected. Hopefully not, anyway.

The computer chimed to let her know that her credentials had been accepted. She pumped her fist and began to explore.

Cue more tedious work. The database she’d hacked into listed hundreds of veterinary companies of all different sorts. She filtered it down to pharmaceutical companies and ended up with dozens. Filtering it by companies in the Midwest, and she ended up with sixteen entries, eight of those in Minnesota. Apparently, veterinary drug manufacturing was a thing in the land of ten thousand lakes.

Now, she had to search each company to find suspects that fit their profile. Hard to do when you weren’t entirely sure what the profile was.

The killer hated K9 handlers, that was for sure. Two men stabbed to death, and a woman carried off and probably killed already. Thus far, they’d assumed it was something personal with the two particular men who were killed, but throwing Delgado into the mix complicated things. She didn’t have a particularly close connection with the two men.

Or maybe she did. A search of their military records didn’t reveal any collaboration between Delgado and the others, but the humans weren’t the only victims to consider. Dr. Parker saw any military K9 in the Duluth area. Maybe there was a connection on the veterinary end.

Well, she was researching that connection, so that was good. But what was the motive? Who on this list of hundreds of names was the one person who had a reason to want all three of them dead?

All three had clean service records. Reeves and Walsh had lost dogs in combat, but Delgado hadn’t. Reeves and Walsh had served on a review board investigating another handler who had lost a dog. Delgado hadn’t. Delgado had participated in K9 competitions, but the other two hadn’t.

She sighed. She felt like she was floating on the surface, trying to find a creature a thousand feet below.

She gave up trying to put all of the pieces together. She wasn’t ready to use a hook yet. She needed to cast a net.

She plugged all of the names into an FBI search engine that would look for connections between them and the victims. The technology was brand new and still in testing, but since most of the police manpower was being used to look for Delgado right now, she was a one-man show, and this could help narrow things down until she found her next suspect.

While the search engine ran, she went to the breakroom and got herself some breakfast and coffee. Breakfast might be a bit of a stretch, actually. Michael might consider a maple bar and a bear claw a breakfast, but Faith needed protein, not just carbs.

She smiled wistfully as she thought of Michael. She missed her old partner. It wasn’t the same working without him. Marcus was a good detective, and he was doing a good job with this given the circumstances, but she still felt scatterbrained without Michael.

It was funny. From the outside, Faith was the brilliant one. Maybe in a sense that was true. Michael was more by-the-book and tended to think of clues as stepping stones rather than puzzle pieces. When one clue didn’t lead to another, he could lose his way.

But just like Holmes was better with Watson, she was better with Michael. Michael kept her grounded. She would take theories and run with every possible solution, or she would fixate on one thing that sounded good and bang her head against the wall until it either made sense or was too outlandish to consider anymore. Michael helped keep her on track and gently prodded her to move on when it was time.

And something about working with him helped her find answers faster. Not just that she was grounded but that her brain somehow worked better with him around. If she ever went back to therapy again, she would have to ask her doctor why that was. Maybe certain people were just compatible in ways that were hard to explain.

Before she could think of the larger implications of that thought, Turk trotted into the breakroom and nudged her. “What is it, boy?”

He turned and walked away. Faith followed him back into Marcus’s office. He sat in front of the computer and looked up at the screen.

Faith smiled. “Good boy.”

The algorithm had worked. She had a name. Dr. Nathan Hayes.

She sat behind the desk and did a quick background on Mr. Hayes. What she found was promising.

Hayes worked for Lake Pharmaceuticals. The company’s primary business was manufacturing drugs formulated by the larger pharma businesses, but they did have a few proprietary products.

One of those products was a synthetic hormone that caused increase absorption of certain sedatives for use in veterinary settings.

“Well, well, well. What have we here?”

She read further and discovered that Dr. Hayes had once been a U.S. Army veterinarian but had retired after a long failed campaign to reform K9 deployment protocols. He claimed that the current standards were too dangerous for the dogs and were, therefore, unethical.

Pulling on that thread a little further, she looked up the case and read the documents. The specific data was expunged, but the names of the handlers assigned to the dogs Hayes mentioned were left in. Master Sergeant Thomas Reeves, Staff Sergeant Kevin Walsh and Technical Sergeant Maria Delgado. She hadn’t lost a dog in combat, but one of her animals had suffered a career-ending injury in training.

She looked at the time. Nine o’clock. Dr. Hayes should be in the office by now.

“Come on, boy,” she said, standing and grabbing her coat. “Let’s take a little trip.”

She had a bounce in her step as she left the office, but there was an undercurrent of desperation in her expression. This lead was no stronger than the others they’d followed, and those had led to dead ends.

Please let this one pan out, she prayed. Please don’t let anyone else die.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Lillian Martin had lost her virginity after senior prom, like most teenagers in America. Back then, her “extracurricular” activities were limited to a neighbor’s cat and the variety of wild vermin that wandered the forests of West Virginia, so she didn’t feel a need to sequester herself from people the way she did now.

The boy she was going with wasn’t particularly handsome, but that didn’t matter. That wasn’t what this was about, anyway. This was just something that needed to be done. It was a part of growing up.

Still, Lillian remembered the nervous anticipation she felt. She knew Curt was going to try something, and unless he did something really stupid or some unforeseen disaster struck, she was going to let him. So, like many people before their first time, she stressed out terribly over her outfit and makeup, teasing her hair until it was curled just right, tweezing off every bit of hair that wasn’t growing from her scalp and carefully applying her makeup to highlight her eyes and her lips—her best features to this day.

It had worked, although now, fifteen years later, she realized that she could have attended the dance in sweatpants and a baggy t-shirt and gotten laid. It was easy when the guy in question was seventeen and also a virgin.

But she felt the same nervous anticipation today. She was going to see Franklin West in person for the first time.

So she woke at three-thirty in the morning and spent four hours showering, blow drying and styling her hair, applying makeup, ironing her clothes and agonizing over how many buttons to leave open, polishing her shoes, whitening her teeth, looking at her reflection in the mirror and practicing her smile and a whole host of other little anxieties that she had to get through to make the big day.

But now she was here. Now she was going to see him. She couldn’t wait.

It would be a nice reprieve from the extraordinarily frustrating last two months. When she killed Grant Monroe, she expected Faith to immediately pop out of the woodwork and come for her like a hawk after a snake.

Instead, the bitch had vanished. Run off with her tail between her legs like… like… Well, like a bitch.

Of course, she would turn coward now. When it was Lillian chasing her and not Trammell or West. She supposed she should be flattered that Faith feared her so much, but it was just really irritating. She wanted to get Faith for West, wanted him to see her and know that she had avenged him. Not just avenged him but surpassed him, done what he couldn’t. She knew he wouldn’t be jealous. He would admire her. He would want to possess her, possess the creature that had killed the deepest thorn in his side.

And for Franklin West, Lillian would absolutely be possessed.

But Faith was gone, and Lillian hadn’t been able to find her. Maybe if she had more resources, she could, but there was only so much Google could tell her about someone who wasn’t getting paid to show as much ass as possible while lip-syncing to someone else’s music or to flip around on a green screen while a pimple-faced animator added in monsters that looked like they walked off of a five-year-old’s drawing. It turned out Faith wasn’t nearly as much of a celebrity as Lillian thought she was.

And she couldn’t wait anymore. She needed to see him. She needed him to see her. She and Curt hadn’t lasted, obviously, but she still enjoyed remembering the look in his eyes when they were finally alone and he realized she was going to say yes. She needed to see West look at her the same way.

She could only hope that he’d understand about Faith. After all, he’d tried for years and eventually lost. He’d give her more time? Right?

“All rise for the Honorable Judge Peter Holland.”

She gasped and got to her feet, pulled back to reality by the bailiff’s announcement. A moment later, the short, fat, balding judge waddled to the bench, and the bailiff announced regally, “You may sit.”

Lillian took a seat and gripped the front of the bench to keep from playing with her fingers. The judge went through the bullshit ceremonial stuff, then finally, at long last, said, “Bring the defendant in.”

Lillian stood. Thankfully, so did everyone else, so she didn’t look like a complete idiot. People jostled for a better view, but Lillian had planned this out for weeks. She had chosen a spot to sit where she would get a clear view of Franklin West no matter what everyone else did. More importantly, he would get a clear look at her.

The door opened. Sound died away. Franklin West, the Copycat Killer, the protégé who had far surpassed his inspiration, walked into the courtroom, escorted by four police officers. He looked a little thinner than he did on TV, and his hair was a little longer and wilder. Grayish stubble grew on his neck, and there were a few more lines on his face than she remembered from the news.

But his eyes blazed just as brilliantly as ever, and he wore the slight smile that made Lillian’s knees weak. That smile told her and the world that he was still a god, that whatever these pathetic little creatures did to him, he would always be a god, and they could grovel and whine and snarl and fight and even kill him. They could do whatever made them happy, but it wouldn’t matter. He had made his mark in history. He would be remembered while everyone in this room faded into nothingness.

She took a deep breath and started to lift her hand to get his attention, but it made it only to her waist when he turned and looked at her.

Time stopped. His eyes bored into hers, stripping her naked—body, mind and soul. She gasped as heat and cold rushed through her in deep, rippling pulses. Her knees grew weak, and the soles of her feet tingled. It really was like looking at a god.

Those eyes saw her. Those eyes knew. Those eyes read her secret thoughts. She didn’t need to tell him that she was his, that she was his Messenger. He knew. He knew, and when the smile widened, she knew that he approved.

And his message was clear. Keep looking. You’ll find her.

And when you do, kill her.

“I’ll kill her, Frank,” she whispered, too softly for those around her to hear. “I’ll kill her. And I’ll find you. We’ll be together. We’ll be one. Just like we were meant to be.”

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Faith had learned not to judge books by their cover, but when she saw Dr. Nathan Hayes, the cover made her wonder very seriously if she was reading the wrong book. Dr. Hayes was short, slightly built and wore thick glasses through which he still squinted. He did not at all look like someone who could have overcome a high-level amateur boxer like Delgado or successfully fired a tranquilizer dart from fifty-plus yards in the dark multiple times against moving targets.

But he had a motive, and he had a connection, and Faith couldn’t afford to dismiss any lead right now. “Dr. Hayes, is there somewhere private we can talk?”

Dr. Hayes blinked. “Sure. We can talk in my office. Follow me.”

He led Faith and Turk through a long hallway. On either side were laboratories of varying degrees of security and sophistication. Some contained only a few people in lab coats using gloves to look at slides under microscopes. Others were full self-contained units with airlocks and people in what looked like spacesuits handling substances in airtight boxes.

“You guys do a lot of research here,” Faith remarked.

“Oh yes. Every new product we launch has to be tested rigorously. Otherwise, we can’t expect approval. Also, we’d risk killing the animals, and we definitely don’t want to do that.”

“I thought you guys only had one product of your own. You don’t make most of your money producing for other companies?”

“At the moment yes, but we hope that will change,” Dr. Hayes replied. “We’ve been working on answering some very specific questions that the world of veterinary medicine has either been seeking unsuccessfully to answer before now or has made do without for far too long.”

“Such as how to immediately tranquilize an animal instead of having to wait several minutes?”

Hayes looked over his shoulder at her. “Yes. A tranquilized animal is very dangerous before it falls unconscious, not just to humans but to itself. As the drug takes hold, it can affect the animal’s judgment, coordination and awareness. Needless to say, in the hostile environments of nature, that can be problematic. We hope to address that.”

They reached his office, a small but clean and well-organized space that reminded Faith of what Marcus’s office might look like if it was in a hospital instead of a police station. Dr. Hayes sat behind his desk and smiled at Faith. “Now, how exactly can I help you, Special Agent?”

Faith glanced at Turk. Like her, Turk seemed a little confused. Not what you were expecting either, eh boy?

“I’ll be blunt, Dr. Hayes. I’m investigating the murders of Master Sergeant Thomas Reeves and Staff Sergeant Kevin Walsh and the kidnapping of Technical Sergeant Maria Delgado.”

Hayes blinked. “Oh God. That’s horrible. I’ll help in any way I can.”

“You can start by telling me where you were last night.”

His brow furrowed. “Where I was? Am I a suspect?”

“You have access to powerful experimental tranquilizers. You worked with the victims’ dogs, and you have motive.”

“Well, hold on, Special Agent. Yes, I have access to tranquilizers, but I worked with thousands of dogs in the Army, and what possible motive could I have for wanting to murder service members?”

“They were all K9 handlers.”

Dr. Hayes shook his head slightly. “Why would that be a motive for me? Do you think I dislike K9 handlers?”

He seemed genuinely confused and a little upset. He didn’t seem guilty or afraid at all. Faith feared that she was barking up the wrong tree again.

What an unfortunate analogy.

“You were forced out of the Army, right?”

Dr. Hayes stiffened slightly. “I suppose you could say that. I was informed that I wouldn’t be considered for promotion to Brigadier General and asked to retire.”

“And that stemmed from your failed attempt to reform the military’s protocols when it comes to handling K9s.”

He stiffened a little more. “Yes. The Army feared that I was too diametrically opposed to its vision and would serve as a poor example to younger veterinarians.”

“How did that make you feel?”

Dr. Hayes sighed. “I wasn’t happy, but that doesn’t mean I’m a murderer.”

“But you have access to a very specific synthetic hormone. That hormone was present at all three crime scenes in all three canine victims. It’s not the sort of hormone that just anyone could have.”

His eyes widened. “Wait. Are you saying Primax was found at all three crime scenes?”

“If Primax is the synthetic hormone you guys created to shorten the time of onset of tranquilizing sedatives, then yes.”

“Oh my God.” Hayes leaned forward and steepled his hands, resting his chin on his thumbs. “Oh my God.”

“Oh yes. So, can you tell me where you were last night?”

“I was here. I’m actually coming to the end of my shift.”

Faith frowned. “Really? They work you guys overnight?”

“At the moment, the senior researchers rotate to different shifts every few weeks. I happen to be on the night shift now.”

“And you can prove that?”

“I can. It will require a visit to our security office.”

“Then let’s go.”

Hayes got to his feet and led them out of the office. He was far more subdued now than he was before and kept glancing furtively behind at the FBI agents.

Still, he wasn’t showing guilt. The anxiety he showed was more general. He didn’t look worried for himself, just upset to hear the news Faith had brought him.

She began to worry that she had once more found a lead, only to walk right into a dead end.

Dr. Hayes knocked on a door marked security. A voice inside called, “Who is it?” and Dr. Hayes called. “It’s Nathan!”

“What do you want?” the irritable interior voice called.

“I’m here with Special Agent Faith Bold of the FBI,” Hayes said. “She needs to see security footage from last night to prove that I couldn’t have killed someone.”

“What?”

The door opened, and a pudgy man who looked like he needed to show ID every time he ordered alcohol stared in shock at the three of them. His eyes fell to Turk, and he swallowed nervously.

“Don’t worry,” Faith said. “He’s harmless. Unless he needs to be otherwise.”

“He doesn’t need to,” the security officer assured her. “Yeah, come on in. I’ll show you what I have. I didn’t notice anything crazy, but… wait, you said Dr. Hayes killed someone?”

“No, I didn’t,” Hayes insisted.

“Just show me the security footage for Dr. Hayes’ office. I just need to confirm his alibi.”

“Yeah,” the officer said. “Sure. I can do that. I’m Kyle, by the way.”

“Nice to meet you, Kyle.”

Kyle swallowed again, then sat abruptly and began searching. Faith looked at Dr. Hayes and noted that, once more, there was no fear in his expression. Only surprise and concern.

He was hiding something, though. The concern was now laced with a little bit of guilt. Maybe he wasn’t the killer, but could he be involved in some lesser way?

“Here,” Kyle said. “This is the footage from about one a.m.”

Faith looked at the monitor and sighed. Dr. Hayes was clearly visible in the footage, sitting in his office and organizing paperwork right around the time Maria Delgado was taken. He wasn’t their killer.

But there was that little bit of guilt.

“All right,” Faith said. “So you’re not the killer. But you’re hiding something. What aren’t you telling me?”

Dr. Hayes looked at Kyle. “Would you mind if I answered that question in my office, Special Agent?”

Faith hesitated a moment, but she very much doubted that Dr. Hayes would manage any sort of surprise attack. “All right. We can do that.”

The three of them left the confused and terrified Kyle and returned to Dr. Hayes’ office. As soon as the door was closed, Dr. Hayes sighed and sat heavily. He rubbed his temples and said, “I very much hope that I’m wrong with what I’m about to say, but I think I might know who your killer is.”

I very much hope you’re right, Faith thought. Aloud, she asked, “Who?”

“My former assistant, James Cooper.”

Faith raised an eyebrow. “Is that so? Tell me why you suspect him.”

He sighed again. “James was… a troubled young man.”

“How so?”

“He was highly empathetic. I mean that in the medical sense. He couldn’t stand stressful circumstances. That’s why I had to fire him. He worked hard, and he truly cared about the animals, but he had such a difficult time with the injured K9s.”

Faith frowned. “Do you treat animals here?”

“No, not here. I apologize, I should have clarified. James was my assistant at my veterinary practice before I moved to Lake Pharmaceuticals. I closed the practice six months ago to take this job, but I’d fired James already two months before that.”

“I see. You said he had a difficult time with injured K9s. Any particular cases that stand out?”

“The military dogs.”

Faith felt a touch of her excitement return. “Can you expand on that?”

Hayes nodded. “He felt that using dogs in military and police work was unethical. He believed it was too stressful on the dogs and demanded that the practice be abolished. When they would show up injured, he would fly into a rage. He was normally the sort you might call a gentle giant, but there was nothing gentle about him when facing a dog that had been injured in combat. There was one time he got into a shouting match with a handler. I had to remove him from the room and let him go.”

“Do you remember the name of the handler?”

“No, I’m sorry. I saw so many. I can tell you that she was female and that her dog was a Dobermann named Rex.”

Faith raised her eyebrow. “Why, what a coincidence. One of my victims is female with a Dobermann. I’d bet dollars to donuts that the dog’s name is Rex.”

Dr. Hayes nodded. “Possibly.”

“When was the last time you spoke to Mr. Cooper?”

Dr. Hayes shook his head. “Not since I fired him. He was very disheartened when I told him his services would no longer be required.”

“What do you mean when you say disheartened?”

“Sad. Not violent. He was never violent with me. He was just very sad. He believed it was his calling to help animals. He pleaded with me to keep him, but I was firm. I couldn’t have him assaulting clients.”

“Do you have an address for him?” Faith asked.

“Possibly, but not here. I have the records of my private practice in storage. I would have to look through them. I’m willing to do that, but it might take a while.”

“That’s all right,” Faith replied. “I can probably find the info I need faster by looking him up through the DMV. Can I have a description please?”

“Sure. He was tall, perhaps six-foot-three. Two hundred pounds or so, in decent shape. Blonde hair that he kept spiked and gray eyes. A real mellow voice so long as he wasn’t angry.”

Faith noted all of that, then said, “All right. This is good information, thank you.”

Dr. Hayes offered a dejected smile. “I’m very sorry for the victims. No one should have to die like that. I disagree with the military’s treatment of K-9s, but I wouldn’t wish this fate on my worst enemies. I truly do hope you find your killer, whether it’s James or not.”

Faith returned a smile of her own. “Thank you for your time, Doctor.”

She and Turk left the building. As soon as they left the building. Her smile vanished. She understood Dr. Hayes’ reticence, but she didn’t know James. She didn’t have any special connection to him, and she didn’t feel any guilt for hoping that James Cooper was their killer. If they could catch him, then they could put an end to this mystery and prevent any more innocent people from getting killed.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Faith called Marcus on the way back to the station. “Marcus, how’s it coming?”

“Not so good,” Marcus said irritably. “I feel like I’m spinning my wheels. You’d think after twenty-four years on the force, I’d get used to it.”

“Well, I’m only half that deep into the FBI, but I hate it too. So no sign of Delgado?”

“It’s incredible. It’s like she vanished into thin air. Do you remember when we speculated that the killer might use some sort of scent masking?”

“Yes, I remember.”

“I think he is. He has to be. The dogs found some darts that match the other crime scenes, but there are no fingerprints, so that won’t help us either.”

“You’re using K9s?”

“We’re using everything right now. We’re turning up nothing. I hate to say it, but I’m beginning to think the killer headed to the airport and took off with her.”

“How? There’s no way he dragged an unconscious and possibly bloody woman through airport security.”

Marcus paused for a moment. “Yeah, you’re right. Damn it.”

“Keep looking. Don’t give up yet. I actually might have stopped spinning my wheels too.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. Dr. Hayes isn’t our guy. Alibi clears him, not to mention he looks like he’d lose in a fight to a particularly determined toddler. But he had an assistant in private practice by the name of James Cooper. Apparently, Hayes had to let him go because he got in a K9 handler’s face after the handler brought the dog in severely injured.”

“Ah. So he had a problem with the handlers.”

“Yes. He believes that the use of dogs in military and police work is unethical.”

“Well, that sounds an awful lot like motive,” Marcus said.

“Sure does, doesn’t it?”

“Do you have an address for this James Cooper?”

“Not yet. I’m going to work on that right now.”

“Good luck, Special Agent.”

“You too, detective.”

Faith skipped the breakroom when she reached the station. She didn’t need caffeine anymore. She was circling the conclusion to this case, and the excitement of being able to provide justice to the victims was more than enough to keep her awake.

She opened Marcus’s computer again and plugged in James Cooper’s name. There were nineteen matches, but thanks to Dr. Hayes’ description, she was able to find the specific James Cooper she needed.

And along with that, a quite impressive history. Cooper had been arrested for aggravated assault five years prior when he was a civilian K9 instructor contracted with the Army. It seemed that a certain young Private First Class Kevin Walsh had complained that James wouldn’t let him do anything with his K9 because he believed the private would injure the dog. James had responded by shoving Walsh into a wall.

Among the members of the inquest that eventually led to James’s firing by the military was Staff Sergeant Thomas Reeves.

That was his connection to the two men. She already had the connection to Delgado.

Now she needed to find him. His ID was listed as expired, and a few minutes of digging showed that his lease had expired three months ago. A call to the owners confirmed that he had moved out at that time and hadn’t been seen since.

She spent another hour trying everyone who might have known him at one time, but she couldn’t find any more recent information. It looked like he had faded off of the grid.

Okay. So, where would someone like James go if he was off the grid? He liked dogs. He’d once had a civilian training business.

Actually, that might be her answer. She looked up the business and discovered that it had once owned property. The property was still listed as belonging to James. Sometimes in cases like this, it took a while for records to update, but there was at least a chance that James was still there.

She got to her feet and motioned for Turk to follow. Turk was just about to close his eyes and fall asleep and didn’t appreciate the interruption. He let her know by growling irritably.

“You can sleep in the car,” she told him. “Come on.”

He sighed and got to his feet to follow his annoying human.

***

The training facility was located northeast of the city proper, about halfway between Duluth and the National Guard base. The gate to the property was locked with a rusted padlock so corroded that it was difficult to tell where the actual lock ended and the rust began. A couple of whacks with the battering ram in Marcus’s truck was enough to break it.

Turk trotted ahead of Faith, nose to the ground, sniffing for clues. “Keep close, Turk,” Faith warned. Normally she would let him have free rein, but this killer had shown no concern over the K9s his victims had. The last thing she needed was Turk knocked out of the fight, especially if James used the second compound that had nearly killed the Dobermann.

It was clear immediately that the property had been left to rot. The chain link fence was as corroded as the lock and in some places, the links had begun to fail. The obstacles constructed on the course were either rusted to almost unrecognizability or—if they were plastic—warped to the same state. The field was covered in ice, so Faith couldn’t see if anything still grew there or if the turf had devolved into a choking mass of weeds.

The main building was located on the other side of the property from the gate Faith entered. Like the rest of the facility, it was in shambles. Every window Faith could see had shattered. Mold and lichens filled the pits and crevices of the concrete structure. Looking through some of the windows, Faith could see that parts of the roof had caved in. Snow drifting in through the windows and the open roof had mixed with dust and rust to form a sickly brown powder that reminded Faith somewhat of radioactive fallout.

Actually, that’s what this place felt like to her. It was like she was returning to a war zone after ten years and crawling through the wreckage of a past life. That was true, in a way. She wondered if James felt the same way as he looked around at what once had been a successful business.

She could almost feel sympathy for him. He had fallen to the opposite extreme that Daniel Ross had fallen to, and he had failed because of that, but she had a much easier time being angry with someone who abused dogs than with someone who cared so much for them that he didn’t want them in harms’ way at all.

She walked around the building, handgun ready, eyes scanning for clues and threats. Turk stayed a few yards ahead of her, paws padding silently over the snow, nose to the ground but eyes up and alert.

The silence was the most sobering part of the experience. Faith was used to a constant low hum of noise. In Philadelphia, there was always something going on. Even at four in the morning, you could hear the distant thrum of traffic on the interstate. If by some miracle, you happened to come across a few minutes with no traffic, you could hear the whine of electricity through the power lines. Televisions from neighboring apartments whispered through the walls, water hummed in the pipes—all noises that the city dweller tuned out instinctively but were present, nonetheless.

Not here. Here there was only the muffled crunch of snow under Faith’s boots and the soft pant of Turk’s breathing. This was almost certainly because the cold had driven the animals into hibernation and they were far enough from the main roads that cars would pass rarely if at all, but a part of Faith’s mind couldn’t stop from associating the silence of this place with the death she had witnessed in Duluth, death that the owner of this property might have caused.

They reached the front of the building. Like the windows, the glass here had been shattered. Jagged spears still hung from the top and protruded from the bottom like deadly 2D stalactites and stalagmites. Faith pulled her flashlight and switched it on to shine into the building. From where she stood, she could see nothing, but there was a lot of the building she couldn’t see.

She briefly considered calling for backup. She didn’t want to pull anyone away from the search for Delgado, but this killer worked by lying in wait and striking silently from a distance. She could be walking into a trap.

But she had to stop him. These were the risks that came with the job, and Faith knew all too well how dangerous caution could be to the innocents they were sworn to protect.

She took a deep breath and steadied herself. “Okay, Turk. Wait for me to clear the glass, then follow me in.”

Turk probably only understood “follow me,” but it helped Faith to talk to him like he was a person sometimes.

She switched her flashlight and steeled herself. This would potentially be the most dangerous part because it was the part that would result in the most noise.

She shielded her face and swung the flashlight into the glass. It shattered with a noise like a train wreck. She cried out and jumped back, leveling her weapon, startled by the sudden explosion of sound where before had been silence.

She was greeted with nothing but the echoes of the shattered glass ringing in her ears. She sighed—red from fear and self-embarrassment—and used the flashlight to break another piece of glass.

Now that the first shock was passed, the rest was easy. Within seconds, she had the doorway clear of hanging glass. The glass on the floor was a concern for Turk, though. Faith would have to leave him outside.

“Okay, Turk—”

Before she finished that sentence, Turk leaped through the door with the grace of a dancer, landing in a clear spot on the floor and jumping twice until he landed clear of the minefield.

“Never mind.”

She walked through carefully, ready to fire at a moment’s notice. Inside, the damage was worse than on the outside. She stood in what had once been the reception area. A high counter still stood in front of her, forming an L-shape. The rooms past that were inaccessible, blocked by debris and the brown silt of snow and dust.

Turk peeked around the corner of the L and barked. Faith approached swiftly but cautiously, handgun raised.

There was no one there, but someone had clearly been here very recently. A sleeping bag was stretched haphazardly behind the counter, and a trash bag filled with food wrappers and water bottles sat in the corner of the ruined wall and at the far end of the counter. A collection of magazines—some of the dirty variety, all dated within the past month—stood next to the bag, and a battery-powered lantern sat on top of them as a paperweight.

She holstered her weapon. She’d found James Cooper’s hideout. She’d call Marcus and have them stake the place out. As soon as he returned, they’d pick him up.

She reached for her phone, but before she could dial Marcus, the phone buzzed, and the screen lit up with his caller ID. She answered. “I was just about to call you. I found James Cooper’s hideout.”

“We found Delgado.”

The somberness in his voice told Faith it was bad news. She sighed and nodded. “Where?”

“In a drainage ditch a mile east of the airport. She’s alive.”

Faith’s eyes shot open. Alive?

She pumped her fist and whooped for joy. If she was alive, then she could identify her killer. They could know for sure exactly who was killing these handlers.

Most importantly, she was alive. The killer hadn’t won. He hadn’t killed anyone else. She could still beat him. She could still keep people safe.

“She’s alive, but barely. We’re transporting her to the hospital now.”

“That’s still good news,” Faith said. “Send me the address. I’ll meet you there.”

In FBI work, bad news was par for the course. It made moments like these even more precious to her.

The darker the night, the brighter the light shines, she thought as she started the truck and headed back for the city.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Faith’s good feelings faded when she saw Delgado. The woman had been beaten until she was nearly unrecognizable. Underneath all of the tubes and wires and bandages, Faith caught glimpses of swollen, purple skin, misshapen features and dried blood. Her eyes were puffy, her nose crushed and bent sideways, her ears pulped.

And she was in a coma. In the joy of her victory, Faith had forgotten how broad the definition of “alive” was in the medical sense.

“She’s got a list of injuries that’s miles long,” Marcus told her. “Nine of her ribs were broken, both her arms and one of her legs. She has two skull fractures, a broken nose, and five herniated discs. Numerous ruptured internal organs, frostbite on four of her fingers…” He sighed. “And she’s in a coma. Doctors need to keep her that way for several days at least to try to give her some chance to heal. Maybe even longer than that. They don’t know if they’ll be able to wake her up when the time comes.” He shook his head. “He beat her bad. This is among the worst things I’ve ever seen. Definitely the worst thing I’ve seen someone survive.

An old memory came to Faith, a vivid reminder of when she had been left in a similar state.

Jethro Trammell, the Donkey Killer, approached slowly, his eyes gleaming with insanity. He approached Faith and leaned close, a manic grin splitting his face. Faith’s nostrils flared as his sour breath wafted across her face.

He showed her his knife, the blade rusty and pitted save for the edge which was polished and sharpened so that it gleamed bone-white in the soft light that filtered through the barn’s window. “Let’s see how you bleed, little girl.”

Trammell had cut Faith’s knees first. Then he’d severed her Achilles tendons. He’d cut the tendons in her elbow, and then Faith had passed out. She woke up in the hospital to learn that Trammell had cut her over forty times before Michael arrived and killed him with a single gunshot to the head.

She’d spent time in a coma too. A week? Two? She couldn’t remember.

She shivered and looked away. Marcus looked at her, and an unspoken agreement passed between them to leave the room. They stepped outside, but Turk lingered for a little while longer. Maybe he was remembering the day he met Faith. Faith was conscious when Michael introduced them, but she was covered in bandages and wires just like Delgado was.

“How’s her dog?” she asked.

“Her dog? Fine. He’s anxious without Delgado, but he’s behaving himself.” He looked into the room. “I don’t think we should bring him to see this, though. I can’t imagine it’ll help him to see her like this.”

Faith didn’t know either. Maybe it would bring him some hope. Maybe it would bring him closure. Maybe those were only human emotions, and seeing his handler beaten nearly to death would only make him sad.

“It’s too bad she was sedated,” Marcus said. “If she was conscious, she might have been able to protect herself.”

“Maybe,” Faith said. “Maybe not. No one likes to admit it, but the reality is that size matters. A two-hundred-pound man who’s dedicated enough is going to overpower a one-hundred-thirty-pound woman. A woman trained to box will have an advantage over a woman not trained to box, but unless she gets a lucky knock out, she’s going to have a really hard time winning. That’s why we train our agents to aim for places like the groin, eye and throat in a life-or-death situation.”

She shook her head. “Let’s get out of here. I need to think, and I can’t do it looking at her. That sounds horrible, I know, but I was in the hospital once after a killer hurt me, and I can’t…” She took a deep breath and released it slowly. “Let’s grab some food in the cafeteria. We’ll touch base there.”

“I’m with you.”

“Turk? Come on, boy.”

Turk lingered for a half-second longer, then turned slowly and followed Faith out of the room. He hung his head low and whined softly. Faith stopped and pulled him into a hug, burying her face in his coat and taking long, steady breaths. She could feel eyes on her as nurses and orderlies watched the FBI agent hugging a dog in the middle of their floor, but she didn’t care. Seeing Delgado like that had awoken memories that she would have preferred to leave buried.

But that’s not how it worked. Wounds healed, but they left scars. Hers had been dormant for a long time, but maybe it was more correct to say concealed than dormant. Seeing Delgado clinging to life reminded her what it felt like to be powerless. Like Delgado, she was trained to fight. Like Delgado, she had combat experience. Like Delgado, it hadn’t mattered. Jethro Trammell had overpowered her effortlessly, and it was only because of Michael’s intervention that she was alive.

She and Marcus got lunch and more coffee and sat at a table that was somewhat removed from the rest of the cafeteria. The lunch rush was picking up, so they wouldn’t have privacy for very long, but that was all right. People here were more wrapped up in their own problems than in what was happening around them.

Probably one of the few circumstances where it’s all right to be self-absorbed.

Turk stayed close to Faith, keeping his eyes on her and laying his head in her lap when they sat. His presence slowly calmed her, and after finishing her chicken salad, she was ready to get back to work.

“So I think it’s safe to say that we’re looking for a male suspect. I was fairly sure of that already, but the use of the sedatives made me wonder.”

“Do you think he changed his M.O. because she was female?” Marcus asked.

Faith shook his head. “I think he got angry because he was interrupted. The first two kills were quick and clean. He was in and out before he could be noticed. This time, she resisted, and based on Wayne’s testimony and the evidence at the scene, she resisted effectively, at least at first. By the time he was able to sedate her, security was coming, and he had to leave before he killed her.”

“So he wanted to get hands-on with her because he was pissed off.”

“That’s my guess.”

Marcus scoffed. “What a coward.”

“They usually are.”

Michael took a deep breath. “Okay, so we have a male with anger issues, but as long as things go his way, they don’t surface. He’s got to be big and strong because he carried an unconscious woman for at least a mile, and he had to do that while moving quickly in deep snow. Does this fit the description of James Cooper?”

“Yes. James is six-four, two-thirty according to his driver’s license, and just based on the picture, most of that weight looks like muscle.” She stiffened. “Damn it. I forgot about James. Shit.”

“It’s all right,” Marcus said. “I sent units to watch the old dog training facility on Beakman.”

“How did you know where to go?”

“All of our vehicles have GPS tags. I got the coordinates and sent them there.”

Faith sighed with relief. “Thank you. Sorry. I’ve just been all over the place.”

Marcus gave her a serious look. “You need to take a break.”

She shook her head. “I can’t take a break. Our killer’s still on the loose, and he’s moving fast.”

“Go take a nap,” he repeated. “You’ve been up for almost thirty-six hours. The military branches in the area are discontinuing training activities and restricting their handlers from traveling alone. I understand your concerns, but if we’re going to find this guy, I need you to be one hundred percent. No offense, but I think your exhaustion has left you a little burned out.”

Faith wanted to protest, but she knew he was right. It wasn’t just exhaustion affecting her either. It was the sight of Delgado bringing up memories of her own ordeal in the hospital. It was the fact that her real partner was back in Philadelphia handling the case she should have been running while she was in Minnesota dealing with a killer whose methods brought back the worst memories of her life.

She nodded. “All right. I’ll drive the truck back to the station and take a nap in the cab. Call me if you get any more information or if Delgado wakes up.”

“If you’re gonna nap in the cab, then park the car outside and keep the engine running and the heater on. Otherwise, you’ll freeze to death.”

She chuckled. “Maybe I’ll just help myself to one of the killer’s darts and slow my metabolism enough to survive extreme cold.” He stared at her for a moment, and she sighed. “Yeah, that was a bad joke. You’re right, I need sleep.”

“Maybe keep the truck parked in the hospital lot instead of driving back to the station.”

“Yeah. Good idea.”

She got to her feet and headed for the exit, just as Marcus’s phone rang. When he answered and said, “You found him?” she spun around and rushed back to the table.

“They have James Cooper?” she asked.

Marcus held up a hand. “And you’ve positively identified him?” After a brief pause, he smiled. “Wonderful. We’re on our way.”

He hung up and looked at Faith. “I take it back. They got James Cooper. You’ll have to nap later.”

“That’s fine with me,” Faith replied.

“And I’m driving.”

She handed him the keys. “Fine with me too. Come on, boy!”

Turk got to his feet and followed the two investigators from the room. Faith was no longer exhausted. In fact, there was a bounce in her step as they walked across the parking lot to the truck.

Just when they hit a wall, another path had opened up. They hadn’t lost yet.

CHAPTER TWENTY

Faith’s first impression of James Cooper was that he had given up on life. He made no attempt to resist as he was led into the interrogation room and didn’t protest his innocence or show any sign of concern at his situation. When Turk bared his teeth, James ignored him, and other than glancing briefly at the two agents, he offered no greeting.

He sat with his shoulders slumped, his eyes downcast, his face otherwise expressionless. His disheveled clothes sported tears, holes and several days’ worth of dirt and grime. His hair—close-cropped in his driver license photo—spread out in a tangled, matted mop. He had a beard that was equally tangled and matted.

But in those downcast eyes, Faith could see a spark of anger and frustration at the injustices he believed he had suffered. He might not have hope for his future, but he was angry. That was enough to make some men kill.

Marcus started the interrogation. “This interview will be recorded. Do you understand?”

James didn’t reply. Marcus shared a look with Faith and tried again. “Mr. Cooper, we need to record this interview for your safety and for ours. Do you understand what I’m saying to you?”

James lifted his eyes to Marcus. Faith thought he was going to stonewall them again, but he nodded slowly.

Marcus pressed the record button and said, “Will you please state your name for the record?”

“James Cooper.”

James had a deep basso voice that hard living had roughened into a gravelly rumble. Other than that, his voice was toneless. No emotion leaked through.

“Mr. Cooper, do you understand why you’re here?”

“You believe I murdered some people,” James replied.

Faith named them. “Master Sergeant Thomas Reeves, USMC, Staff Sergeant Kevin Walsh, U.S. Army, and Technical Sergeant Maria Delgado, USAF.”

She watched his face to see if her reacted to their names, or to the confirmation that Delgado was dead. He might not know that Delgado was still alive, but he might, and his reaction might show that and confirm that they had their killer.

He didn’t react.

“Did you kill them?” Faith asked.

A flicker of emotion crossed his face, a sort of bitter amusement.”

“Does it matter?”

“Yes, it matters,” Faith replied. “It matters very much.”

“No, I mean, does it matter if I answer? If I tell you I didn’t, will you believe me?”

“We’ll look at all of the evidence and make a determination,” Marcus replied. “It will help us very much if you tell us the truth.”

James gave Marcus a brief, sarcastic smile. “No. I didn’t kill them.”

“Can you account for your whereabouts last night?” Faith asked.

“No. I can’t account for my whereabouts for the past three months. I’ve been homeless for five months, and the shelters fill up fast during winter. I’ve been living at my old property on Beakman Road where your officers picked me up.”

“You still own the property?”

“No, I foreclosed on it years ago, but the bank’s never bothered to do anything with it.”

“They’ve just let it lie fallow?”

“I don’t know what fallow means, but they haven’t touched it.”

Faith frowned. “I don’t believe that. They wouldn’t just let a property sit like that so they can pay property taxes on something that’s not making them any money.”

“They would if they wanted to list it as an asset for tax purposes,” James countered. He shrugged. “But I don’t know if that’s the reason. I just need a place to sleep where I can get out of the cold, and that’s the best place I can find right now.”

“And you were there last night?”

“Every night for the past five months. But I can’t prove it because no one sees me there. No one sees me at all.” He smiled sourly. “I’m the world’s most invisible giant.”

Faith shared a grim look with Marcus. That could complicate things a little. True, without an alibi, James couldn’t prove his innocence, but it would be difficult for them to prove guilt just because he lived in an abandoned building that was out of the way.

And she hadn’t found any weapons or darts there. That seed of doubt was germinating again.

“I understand you had an encounter with one of our victims,” Marcus said. “Miss Delgado. Can you explain what happened?”

“If I knew who she was, maybe,” James replied.

He was being sarcastic now. Faith decided to call him out on that and see how he reacted. She leaned forward and held his eyes. “This isn’t funny, James. It’s not a joke to us. People are dead, and hearing you taunt them makes me think that you don’t care about the fact that they’re dead. Or maybe you’re happy that they’re dead.”

“It’s the first one,” James replied. “I don’t care that they’re dead. The world doesn’t care about me, so I don’t feel a need to care about them.”

Marcus cleared his throat. “Miss Delgado is a K9 handler who visited the practice of Dr. Nathan Hayes with her Dobermann. From what we understand, you and Miss Delgado got into an altercation.”

James eyes widened. “Oh yeah. I remember that now. She had a Dobermann whose hips were already showing signs of arthritis at five years old.” His hands slowly closed into fists. “Five years old, and the dog needed to be put on medication for the rest of its life. That’s just bullshit. It’s animal abuse, but we accept it because, hey, they help the military. Why risk humans getting killed when you can just kill dogs?”

His eyes fell to Turk. “That’s a pretty nasty scar your dog has,” he told Faith. “He gets that in a fight with a suspect?”

“Yes.”

James nodded. “Then you’re a piece of shit.”

Marcus frowned and began to correct him, but Faith held up her hand. Turk had actually suffered that injury when Jethro Trammell killed Jack Preston, but James didn’t need to know that. “What do you think should happen to people like me?” Faith asked. “Do you think we deserve to die?”

“Deserve? Sure you do. But that doesn’t mean I’ll be the one to send you to hell.”

“You sure?” Faith pressed. “Jail is a roof over your head, hot meals every day, and no more waiting around to die in the snow.”

James laughed. “I’ll rob a gas station if I want to go to jail. I’m not going to kill people. I’m big, and I won’t lie, I have a temper, but I’m not a murderer.”

“It’s interesting that you bring up a temper,” Faith replied. “Our last victim—Miss Delgado—ran into someone who had a temper. A bad temper. She’s still alive”—again she watched his face, and again, he showed no reaction—” but she’s hurt very badly. Marcus here said it was one of the worst beatings he’s seen, right Marcus.”

“That’s true,” Marcus confirmed. “She looks like she was trampled by an elephant.”

“She’s the one who owned the Dobermann?”

“That’s her.”

“Then she got what she deserved.”

Faith sighed. “You’re making it hard for us to clear you as a suspect, Mr. Cooper.”

James shrugged. “If I said that I was sorry and felt bad and begged you to believe that I was innocent, would it change anything?”

“It would make it easier for us to provide closure to these families if we knew that you were telling the truth,” Marcus reminded him.

“But I am telling you the truth. And you don’t believe me. And I can’t prove it because I’ve lived alone for months. So…” He lifted his hands as far as the shackles would allow.

That was the real problem. They wanted a confession because right now they had nothing but an anecdote of a months-old argument with one victim and the fact that James didn’t have an alibi. If they could connect him to the murder weapons somehow, then they would have more, maybe even enough to convict, but they didn’t.

Still, it might be worthwhile to pull that thread. “Have you ever used a tranquilizer gun?” Faith asked.

“No. It’s inhumane. Dogs don’t need to be drugged into submission. If you’re calm and direct with them and reward them for good behavior, you can gain their trust. But all of the scare tactics that law enforcement and the military use—just result in broken dogs. Do you know why I lost my business, Special Agent?”

“Could it have something to do with your assault on Kevin Walsh when you were training him and his K9?”

James frowned. He cocked his head and looked up at the ceiling. “Walsh… Wait, is that the kid who kept trying to get his dog to jump through hoops?”

“You tell me.”

James chuckled. “Well, if it’s the incident I’m thinking of, I was trying to demonstrate that dog training didn’t need to be stern and vicious. This punk kept shouting at his dog, berating it when it wouldn’t jump through these hoops that I’d taken my greyhounds through. I told him to back off and that if he shouted at his dog again, we’d have a problem. He laughed at me and said something snotty. I can’t remember what. So I shoved him into a wall.” He shrugged. “Army didn’t like that. They called a hearing and got me fired. I remember that they had a Marine Corps NCO on the board, which I thought was weird.”

“That Marine was Thomas Reeves.” She leaned forward again. “So you see why we’re concerned about you. You have a connection with all three of our victims: a physical altercation with one and a verbal altercation with another. You seem to have a hard time controlling your anger when it comes to dogs.”

James sighed. His sarcasm faded. He looked at Turk, and his brow furrowed. “It’s just not fair. Someone has to stand up for these dogs, and no one will. I’m doing the best I can to speak for those who can’t speak for themselves. And look what it’s gotten me? I lose my business, I lose my job, I lose my home, and now here I am sitting in front of you accused of murder.”

Faith nodded. “So you’ve never used a tranquilizer gun?”

James laughed and looked up at the ceiling. “Jesus Christ. No, I haven’t. I can’t prove that either, because I’m afraid I don’t film every waking moment of my life. Who knows? Maybe I used one when no one was looking?”

“Sarcasm won’t help you,” Marcus warned again.

“Nothing will help me. You guys have come to your own conclusions about me, and there’s nothing I can do that’s going to make you guys feel otherwise. Look, just charge me, okay? You’re right. It’s a roof and three square. Sucks that the papers are going to tell people I’m a murderer, but hey, some people win and some people lose. It’s just my lot in life.”

Faith tried one more tack. “Do you know anyone else who might want these three dead?”

He leaned forward and looked at her with so much hate that she had to fight an urge to flinch away. “The same people that should want you dead. People who care about dogs.”

Turk growled and got to his feet. Faith held a hand to steady him. “I think that’s enough for now, Detective. Let’s give James some time to think. Maybe he’ll have better answers for us tomorrow.”

Marcus nodded and got to his feet. “I hope you take this seriously next time, Mr. Cooper. It’s looking very bad for you right now.”

“That’s every day of my life,” James replied. “There’s no point fighting it anymore.”

Faith and Turk followed Marcus from the room. Normally, an interrogation like this would leave Faith fairly sure if someone was guilty or not, but talking to James had only left her confused.

Did she have her killer in custody, or did she have a bitter, broken down but still innocent man who just didn’t think he had a chance to defend himself?

And if she didn’t have the killer, then was he out there somewhere right now plotting his next murder?

CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

The handler had a hard time watching Shepherds. When he planned his murder of Master Sergeant Reeves, he had to take several days to break up his espionage so he wasn’t forced to stare at the dog for hours at a time.

He was having the same trouble now. Sergeant Jennifer Martinez was the new K9 handler assigned to the U.S. Army Reserve Center in Duluth. Her dog, Bear, was a German Shepherd. Like Monkey, he had a golden color pattern with the trademark black muzzle but no dark markings on his back.

He was beautiful. And she was so happy with him. It wasn’t fair.

His vision swam, and he wiped the tears angrily away. He wasn’t going to do this again. He needed to stop thinking about Monkey and hold onto his anger.

He forced himself to look at the two of them. Because of Staff Sergeant Walsh’s death, the K9s were no longer allowed alone on the exercise field at the Reserve Center, so he had followed her home after her duty shift and was now watching them play in her backyard.

Sergeant Martinez was young, only twenty-four years old. She was his type too—medium height with sandy-blonde hair, gray eyes, a killer smile and a taut, toned body that looked like it belonged on a pinup sans uniform.

Her attractiveness would have caused him to feel some sympathy if not for the fact that she was now playing with a dog who looked exactly like Monkey after both of them had returned from the war unharmed and safe.

It was just bullshit. It wasn’t fair. Bear was alive because the Army had learned from the mistakes that had killed Monkey. But had they admitted that? Had they ever acknowledged that their stupid policies regarding K9 use in combat zones was outdated, dangerous and wasteful? Had they ever apologized to him for taking his best friend away and then blaming him for following his orders?

They hadn’t, but remembering that flooded him with guilt, not anger. He had known those orders were bullshit. He had known that he was leading Monkey to die. He had known that Monkey would do whatever he said because Monkey trusted him, and he had betrayed that trust. He could have refused. He could have let them court-martial him. Instead, he saluted, said “Yes, sir,” and marched his dog to his death because that’s what good soldiers did.

More tears threatened, but he reminded himself that if he hadn’t followed orders, they would have just taken Monkey from him and given him to a handler who would follow orders. This was the Army. They gave orders, and their soldiers followed them, or they found soldiers who would. Monkey had never had a chance.

That finally allowed him to control his emotions and focus on anger instead of grief and guilt. He lifted his head back to Jennifer and Bear and saw Jennifer pouring food into Bear’s bowl.

Shitty food. Kibble. He shook his head. Why would people feed their dogs meat cereal?

So many people were just unfit to care for dogs. They weren’t toys. They were thinking, feeling beings. Martinez was young, but she wasn’t that young. She should know better. Hell, when you adopted a dog, they gave you a sheet that straight-up told you not to feed them crap food.

His lips thinned. She deserved to die. They all did. They didn’t deserve their dogs, and the Army didn’t deserve to get away with sending these pieces of shit into combat and acting like it was their policies and training that kept the dogs alive.

A branch cracked behind him. He stiffened and turned around. His blood froze when he saw the shadows approaching.

He remained absolutely still while the couple passed barely three yards behind him. They were talking about some tv show or another, and the only reason they didn’t notice him was because they were civilians and civilians were exceptionally unaware of their surroundings.

He couldn’t rely on that, though. It would be just his luck that someone with combat experience would be in the area when he was taking Martinez.

He thought of his near miss at the Air National Guard base and shivered. He wasn’t going to make that mistake again. He’d wasted all of his darts and had to beat Delgado to death with his hands. He couldn’t take those kinds of risks.

He’d have to take her from her house. That meant he had to be quick. He would have to sedate Bear after he was asleep to minimize any chance of noise. Then he’d go into the house through the yard, sedate Martinez and get her in the truck.

It was still risky, but if he could get her into the truck without being seen, he could take her away and do with her as he pleased.

But where would he take her?

An idea came to him. That idea wasn’t without its own risks, but the more he thought about it, the more convinced he was that it could work.

He nodded. Yes, it would work. He would take one more, and then he would move on. The police were getting riled up over the dead K9s. He would move somewhere else where they weren’t looking so closely for him and find some more people to punish. He figured he could do this at a few more cities before the news went nationwide and he had to lay low for good.

But he’d get a lot of them in the meantime. He’d make up for what happened to Monkey and then some.

He crept out of the trees, brushed the snow and dirt from his clothes, and walked down to his truck. He didn’t mind if people saw him here. Martinez lived next to a popular hiking trail, so people would be used to seeing strangers coming out of the woods. Maybe he could use that to his advantage. If he could park his truck a few yards into the trees, he might be able to put Martinez inside without being noticed. Something to think about.

He started his truck and pulled smoothly onto the road. He didn’t look back. Martinez would be there when he was ready for her. He’d get his revenge again.

CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

“We’re going to have a problem with James in a little bit,” Marcus told Faith. “We can hold him on vagrancy charges for twenty-four hours, but then we have to let him go. The DA isn’t too keen on prosecuting people for being poor, and we don’t have nearly enough to charge him with the murders yet.”

Faith steepled her fingers and brought her hands in front of her face. “Have your officers found any sign of darts or tranquilizers at the property?”

“None. They still have rubble to dig through, but between you and me, I don’t think it’s likely that he has dart guns and sedatives buried under the rubble.”

“Actually, that’s exactly where I’d hide the murder weapon if I were him, but I agree with you. I don’t think he’s the murderer.”

Marcus sighed and took the seat next to Faith. “Well, I didn’t want to say it, but I think you’re right. We’re barking up the wrong tree here.” He glanced at Turk. “No offense.”

Turk cocked his head, and Faith reached down to scratch behind his ears. Turk’s eyes half-closed and he made a sound that reminded Faith a lot of a cat’s purr. She half-smiled at that, but she was too distracted to fully appreciate the irony.

“We’re missing something,” she said. “We’ve been operating on the assumption that this killer hates K-9 handlers.”

“You don’t think he does?”

She shook her head. “I don’t know anymore. We’ve talked to three people who’ve had good reason to hate our victims, but they turned out not to be our killers.”

“Well, one of them is a stage four cancer patient who can barely leave his own bed, and one of them is a homeless person who probably can’t afford the murder weapons used and doesn’t have a way to transport himself to the crime scenes.”

“And one of them is a violent gangster with dart guns and enough tranquilizer to sedate every dog in Duluth,” Faith countered, “but the most he did was harass people on the phone.”

“So we’re looking for someone brave enough or unhinged enough to act,” Marcus said. “You have to be pretty stupid or pretty desperate to think you can get away with murder.”

“Or you have to have nothing left to lose,” Faith added. “That’s why we suspected James in the first place.”

That thought stuck in her head. Nothing left to lose. That seemed very important to her, but she wasn’t sure why.

She got to her feet and started pacing. “The consistency in all of these crime scenes is that the dogs are sedated first and left unharmed. There’s a practical reason for sedating the dogs, but not for leaving them unharmed.”

“It could just be that he didn’t need to kill the dogs. He’s murdering people, not animals, and if he has darts that make very little noise, why use bullets that make a lot of noise?”

“That’s a good point,” Faith said, “but I don’t think it’s the whole story. Dr. Parker said that the dose of anesthetic was enough that it saved the dogs’ lives because their metabolism was slowed so much that they didn’t freeze to death. The line between essentially hibernating a dog and killing it can’t be very thick.”

“So you think the killer intentionally calculated the dose to keep the dogs alive.”

She nodded. “I do. I mentioned that earlier, but I was distracted by the other factors in the case. I think I should have paid more attention to that.”

“Where are you going with this?” Marcus asked. “Not trying to be rude, just trying to follow.”

“Yeah, I understand.” She crossed her arms and bit her lip softly. “I think the killer lost his dog. I think he was a former handler himself, and he’s angry because his dog died, and the victims’ dogs survived.”

“That’s the hypothesis that led us to Eric Davidson, and that was a dead end,” Marcus reminded her.

“Eric Davidson was a dead end. I don’t think the hypothesis was a dead end. I think we need to look for other former handlers who could have a vendetta against current handlers.”

“That’s casting an awfully wide net,” Marcus cautioned.

“Yes, but I think our biggest mistake has been trying to fish with a rod and a hook when we need to be casting a net. That’s another thought I had earlier that I forgot about the moment we found a lead.”

She felt a touch of irritation with herself. She really wasn’t on her A-game right now. She needed Michael here to bounce ideas off of her or at least bounce her own ideas back at her in a different way so she could see the problem from all sides.

So what would Michael say? If you told him that you needed to find a handler with a vendetta against current handlers, what would he tell you?

“He’d probably just say to look through military databases for every handler who’d lost a dog within the past year and narrow those down to anyone who’d reacted badly to the loss or expressed vitriol toward survivors.”

“What?” Marcus asked.

“Nothing. I was just thinking about what my partner would say.” She turned to him. “Let’s get a list of every military K9 handler who lost a dog within the past year and then narrow it down to everyone who reacted exceptionally poorly. Bonus points if they threatened violence.”

“So look for every Eric Davidson, not just one.”

“Yes. Get your officers to help. I want names, and I want them interrogated.”

Marcus shrugged. “Well, hell, if nothing else, it’ll keep them off the streets. Maybe we’ll get lucky.”

“Sometimes the difference between life and death is a little bit of luck.” She grimaced. “I hate that I said that.”

“You and me both. Doesn’t make it untrue.”

***

As the afternoon reached evening, Faith was reminded of the danger of casting a wide net. You tended to catch a lot of fish. Great if you were a fisherman, not so great if you were a detective who just needed to find one particular fish.

There were twelve current and former military K9 handlers in the Duluth area who had recently lost dogs in the field. Of those, nine had shown a severe emotional reaction. That wasn’t horribly excessive, and the police department would be able to interview them all over the course of the next day, but Faith couldn’t avoid the feeling that she was still missing something, that one little thing that would clear away the fog and tell her exactly who their killer was.

“Should we get started?” Marcus asked.

They were in his office, looking at the list Faith had requested on his computer screen. Faith shook her head softly but said, “Yes. Have your officers question them.”

“You said yes, but you shook your head no.”

She sighed. “It’s a hunch. I think we’re missing something.”

“A hunch is normally when you think you know something, not when you think you don’t know something.”

“Thank you, Marcus,” she said drily. “That’s very helpful.”

She started pacing the office, but it was a much smaller room than the conference room from before, so she gave up and sat down again a moment later. “This killer would be grieving the loss of his dog and envious of those who still have their dogs. But he would also feel that it’s unfair. There would be a component of justice to it.”

“Like you don’t get your dog if I can’t have mine?”

“That’s part of it, but I think there’s more. I think our killer suffered more than just the loss of his dog.” The idea coalesced in her brain until it was clear and very convincing. “I think we need to look for handlers who lost their dogs and were blamed for it. I think the killer feels that he was mistreated, not just his dog. That could be why he goes out of his way to keep the dogs alive. It could be that he just loves dogs, but I think there’s more to it. I think he needs to prove to himself that he can kill his victims without endangering their dogs.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You might be onto something there. Let me narrow down the search a little and see what we get.”

His fingers tapped on the keys while Faith finished her second cup of coffee. She looked at Turk, who sat in the corner and watched, waiting to be told it was time to act on whatever research the humans were doing.

How would she feel if she lost him in the field? What if she lost him because of a foolish order from a superior?

She’d answered this question before. She’d kill to save his life, but she wouldn’t kill to avenge him. That would serve no purpose. She’d bring the killer to justice and ignore the voice in her head that said to tear him limb from limb.

She wouldn’t go after handlers, though. She couldn’t relate to that. But she could understand it. It was like sabotaging your opponents in a sports competition when it was favoritism on the part of the judges or poor decisions from your coaches that caused you to lose. It was like a sibling acting out against the favorite child because he felt unfairly treated.

That was it. That was the key. The motive wasn’t hatred for the handlers, it was hatred for the people who punished him but let other handlers go free. He was projecting his hurt onto the wrong target.

“Got someone,” Marcus said.

“Who?”

“Staff Sergeant Peter Kane, USMC. He was discharged nine months ago after a mission in Syria. He lost his dog to an ambush, and he was blamed for not properly assessing the threat before sending his dog into the building. According to the records, when he heard that judgment, he got into a verbal and then a physical altercation with his company commander. The officer in question was left with a broken jaw and a broken clavicle.”

Faith nodded. “Beating your CO to pieces. Yeah, that’ll do it. Any connection to our victims?”

“Wouldn’t you know it,” Marcus said with a grin. “The chief NCO of the K9 component was Master Sergeant Thomas Reeves.”

“That’s why he was the first victim,” Faith said. “And also why there was more time between him and the second victim. This started as a simple revenge, and when that didn’t make him feel better, he escalated.”

She was excited now. She knew she was jumping to a lot of conclusions, but this one felt right. The seed of doubt she felt with the others was nowhere to be found now. “Let’s go get him. Do we have an address?”

“I’m punching it into the GPS right now.”

“Boo-yah.” She got to her feet. “Come on, Turk. Let’s go catch a bad guy.”

Turk barked enthusiastically, Faith’s excitement inspiring him. The three of them left the office at a jog, eager to finally put this to bed.

The sun set just as they got into Marcus’s cruiser. Faith’s excitement was tempered by a shiver.

They had to hurry. When night fell, the hunter they were chasing would stalk his prey once more.

CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

Faith was taut with anticipation when she exited Marcus’s truck and approached Peter Kane’s residence. There was nothing particularly remarkable about the house. It was a single-story ranch of average size with a modest yard hidden by a wood-plank fence. The lights were off, and the garage was closed, but that didn’t necessarily mean he wasn’t home.

Turk reacted to the house almost immediately when they approached, growling and pawing at the gate. “Easy, boy,” Faith said. “Let’s take this slow. Marcus, can we get officers to the back of the house?”

Marcus looked back at the six officers who had joined them on the raid. “Garland, Eli, with us. The rest of you to the back. Check for a dog before you enter, and be prepared even if you don’t see one. Dollars to donuts, he has a dog.”

The officers nodded and rushed to their position. Marcus peered over the fence and said, “I don’t see a dog in the front yard. Knock on the front door and see if you get an answer, Faith. Garland, Eli, stay here and watch for anyone escaping through the window.”

The two uniforms nodded acknowledgment, and Faith walked up to the door, Turk at her side. He bared his teeth and flattened his ears when they stepped onto the front porch.

“Easy, boy,” Faith said again. “Wait for my command.”

She knocked firmly, keeping her hand on her gun. “Peter Kane! Police! Come out slowly with your hands where we can see them!”

There was no response. Not that Faith was especially surprised. Whether he was here or not, he wasn’t likely to answer to the police at his door.

She tried again. “Peter Kane! This is Special Agent Faith Bold of the FBI in partnership with the Duluth Police Department! Come to the door! Now!”

No answer. She gave Turk a look and nodded. Turk stepped back and coiled up, ready to explode into action at the first sign of danger.

Once more, Faith knocked. “Peter Kane, if you don’t come out now, we will be coming in! Do you understand me?”

“Nothing.”

“No response at the door,” she told Marcus. “Let’s go in.”

“Roger,” Marcus replied. “Tranh, Garcia, you’re going in through the back. Martin, Walters, you’re watching back windows.”

He trotted up the steps next to her and gestured for her to backup. She complied, drawing her weapon to cover Marcus when he broke the door down.

“Tranh, are you in position to breach?” Marcus asked over the radio.

“Affirmative,” Tranh replied.

“Okay. On three. One. Two. Three!”

He lifted his leg and grunted with effort as he kicked, splitting the door in half and sending both pieces flying inward. Turk shot ahead with a snarl, tail corkscrewing as he sprinted into the house. Faith and Marcus were a split second behind, guns and flashlights drawn.

The interior of the house was as typical as the outside. Modest furniture, some years old. A TV far too large for the size of the living room. Being a man’s house, the décor was sparse to nonexistent, and what was there didn’t make any sense.

Most importantly, it was empty. Tranh and Garcia came in from the kitchen and announced, “Kitchen’s clear. Backyard too.”

“No dog?”

“No dog. No sign of one either. Just grass.”

“Take the garage,” Marcus told them. “Faith, you go to the end of the hallway and work your way up. I’ll start at the front and meet you in the middle.”

Faith nodded and rushed down the hallway. Halfway to the end, Turk shot past her. He nearly collided with the bedroom door, growling and barking and scratching at the door. Faith said into her radio, “Turk has something. Backroom.”

She knocked on the door, standing to the side just in case Peter had a gun and shot through the door. “Peter Kane! Last chance! I’m coming in if you don’t come out!”

“He might have tranqs,” Marus said softly. Be very cautious.”

“Doing the best I can,” Faith said. “Peter! We’re coming in now! If you’re in there, keep your hands where we can see them and comply with our instructions!”

Turk was nearly insane now, pawing at the door and growling with something that sounded almost like rage to Faith. She wondered if he took this case personally after seeing Delgado in the hospital. Did it remind him of Faith? Of Jack Preston?

“Turk.”

Her dog turned to her, and she could see the pain and anger in his eyes. Her heart went out to him. “It’s okay, boy. Let’s just do our jobs.”

Turk’s expression softened slightly. He dipped his head and stepped back, giving her room to break open the door. She took a deep breath, lifted her leg, and, on the exhale, kicked hard. The door splintered inward, just like the front door after Marcus’s breach.

The three of them rushed into the room. This was Peter’s bedroom, apparently. The bed was loosely made, and there was an empty cup of soup on the nightstand with a fork inside of it. A smaller TV—still too large for the room—sat on top of a dresser, and beyond, they saw a towel hanging over the shower curtain in the bathroom.

No sign of Peter. Turk looked under the bed, and Faith checked the closet while Marcus cleared the bathroom. He wasn’t here.

Faith sighed and lowered her weapon. “Damn it. We’re too late. He’s gone.”

Her radio buzzed, and a moment later, Garcia’s slightly awed voice said, “Guys? You might want to come see this.”

Faith and Marcus shared a look, then started for the garage. When they arrived, Faith gasped and Marcus breathed, “Oh shit.”

One wall of the garage held a collection of dart guns ranging from pistols to rifles to pump guns that Faith guessed were supposed to emulate shotguns. There were a dozen weapons that she could count, but the safe to the right of the wall suggested there might be more. Unless the safe was where he kept his actual guns.

Underneath the dart guns were crates of darts. Thousands of them, stacked three deep, two high and eight wide.

“Forty-eight crates,” Marcus whispered, doing the math. “That’s gotta be, what? Twenty thousand darts?”

“A hell of a lot, that’s for sure.”

Tranh cleared his throat. The three agents turned to the back of the garage where Tranh and Garcia flanked a table, their faces ashen. Tranh pointed at a loose pile of paper on the table.

Marcus and Faith approached. As soon as Faith saw the papers, she knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that Peter Kane was their killer.

The top paper was a dossier on Master Sergeant Thomas Reeves. A picture at the top was labeled MOST RECENT PHOTOGRAPH. The dossier listed his home address, his current deployment dates, his expected date of arrival and departure in Duluth, and detailed vital signs for both him and his dog, Shadow, a dark-furred German Shepherd. Scratched underneath those vitals were different doses for the two different compounds Peter had used along with a note that read KETAMINE FOR SHEPHERDS AND SMALLER.

She put a hand on the paper and brushed it to the side. Underneath the file on Master Sergeant Reeves was a collection of photographs showing him training with Shadow. Behind that was a similar file on Staff Sergeant Walsh and Rooster.

Faith scanned through the documents. There was a file for Delgado and Rex as well. Here, it was noted that PHENOBARBITAL OK FOR LARGER DOGS.

Amongst the files were handwritten papers that showed a disjointed psyche. Peter rambled at length about his own dog, Monkey, and the events that led to Monkey’s death and his dismissal. Interspersed with that story were paragraph-long rants against the “assholes who killed him” and his pledge to make them all pay.

Notably, there was nothing here about anyone in particular except for a sentence about Reeves that mentioned punishing him for making the wrong decision during his hearing. Even then, it was almost a distracted comment. Most of the focus seemed to be on the Army as a whole and how their policies made it dangerous for K9s and handlers. “It’s their fault,” came up an awful lot.

As she was reading one of the notes, a photograph slipped out. She frowned and picked it up. The woman in the photographs wasn’t one of the other women.

Her breath caught in her throat. She dug through the papers, looking for anything that might mention other victims. She found it on the bottom of the stack. A list of names, nine in all. The top three names were crossed out. Below the fourth name was a note that read, TOO DANGEROUS TO STAY. THEY GET TO LIVE. OH WELL.

The fourth name was Jennifer Martinez.

Faith looked at the picture. There was no name on it and no other papers on the desk with that name, but this must be her. Probably Kane had taken the file with him and this photograph fell out.

“Who’s that?” Marcus asked. “Next target?”

She nodded. “I think so. Jennifer Martinez. We need an address ASAP.”

Marcus brought his radio to his lips. “Dispatch, I need an address for Jennifer Martinez, a Hispanic female, mid-twenties, with blonde hair and gray eyes, almost certainly a service member and a K9 handler. I don’t have an exact height and weight, but looks to be five-five or so, maybe one hundred twenty pounds. I’ll send a picture of the photograph we found.”

He took the photo from Faith. Faith tapped her feet on the floor, anxious to have the address.

Frustration crept up her spine. They were so close. If they had only been an hour earlier, maybe even less, they would have caught him.

You can’t know that. For all you know, he’s been out of the house all day.

She doubted that, though. He kept his mini armory in his garage, and it wasn’t likely he had a dart gun with animal tranquilizers just chilling in his truck. He probably staked out the crime scene he preferred, came home and waited for the sun to set, then grabbed his weapons and took off.

“Call the military bases, Tranh,” she commanded. “All of them. Tell them to keep their K9s and handlers indoors.”

“He’s not just going after the one girl?”

“We don’t know where this one girl is,” Faith replied. “And if he doesn’t find her where he wants her, he might go after someone else. While you’re at it, though, ask them if they have a Jennifer Martinez.”

“No need,” Marcus interrupted. “We have an address. She’s a sergeant in the U.S. Army, and she’s renting a home on Baseline. We can get there in five minutes. Tranh, I still want you to call the military bases and let them know what the situation is. If they have units to help, have them send them our way. We can use all the help we can get.”

Tranh nodded, and the five of them—humans and dog—rushed outside. Marcus relayed instructions to the four officers outside the house on his way out.

Faith’s heart pounded, but not with excitement now. Telling herself that she’d been in this situation before did nothing to quell the pounding in her chest. This killer moved quickly. He didn’t have elaborate rituals. He didn’t need to prepare his scenes. He just sedated them and slit their throats. She doubted they’d get “lucky” again like they did with Delgado. Even if they did, Delgado’s survival barely qualified as luck, considering the health problems she was likely to have.

Don’t think about everything that can go wrong. Focus on what will go right.

Jack Preston had taught her that when she was a young agent. Jack Preston was dead. His head had been split open by the same serial killer that nearly murdered Faith.

It was hard to focus on what could go right when Faith knew firsthand how much could go very, very wrong.

CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR

Baseline Road stretched from the U.S. Army Reserve Center along the southern shore of Lake Superior for six miles, then curved west and continued for another five miles before ending at a forested park. Jennifer Martinez lived right in front of that park. It was an excellent place for a killer to conceal himself and sedate both Martinez and her dog.

Tranh and Garcia drove their cruiser onto the grass and straight around back when they arrived. They weren’t going to waste any time putting together an assault plan. The goal was to get in as quickly as possible and put Kane down as quickly as possible.

So, as soon as Marcus’s truck skidded to a halt, Faith and Turk were out the door. Turk sprinted ahead, but Faith called for him to stay close. Turk looked at her, confused.

“I want you close to me, boy,” she repeated. “With Kane, I need you close.” The last thing she needed was Turk sedated while they were dealing with Kane.

“Peter Kane!” Marcus shouted as he approached the house. “If you’re in there, you need to surrender now! Come out, keep your hands where we can see them, and so help me, do not reach for a weapon!”

“Jennifer!” Faith called. “If you can hear me, please respond!”

The only response was from Turk, who barked in alarm and leaped over the five-foot wooden fence surrounding the backyard.

“Turk!” Faith cried. “Damn it!”

She vaulted the fence, landing on her shoulder on the other side. She rolled through the landing and got to her feet, gun drawn.

Her heart sank when she saw Turk. He was standing over the still body of another German shepherd, this one golden everywhere except for his black muzzle. Turk was barking and licking the shepherd, frantically trying to wake him.

Faith forced her eyes away from the dogs and kept her gun pointed at the house. “Marcus, we have a sedated dog in the backyard! Are you inside the house?”

She heard a crashing noise as Marcus kicked the door in, answering her question. She started forward, but hesitated. Turk was still trying to wake the unconscious German Shepherd up. She couldn’t leave him by himself.

“Turk, come on!”

Turk looked up at her, whining plaintively.

“He’s fine,” Faith said. “I promise. We need to go find Jennifer.”

“Damn it!” Marcus cursed over the radio. “House is empty.”

Faith’s heart sank further. “What? You’re sure?”

“Yes, Faith, I’m sure,” Marcus snapped. “We just cleared the whole damned property, so unless Garcia finds a mysterious hidden compartment somewhere, the house is fucking empty!”

“Keep it together, Marcus,” Faith said sternly. “Put an APB out on both of them now. Get the MPs looking for her. Call the airport police too. In fact, it might be worth calling neighboring agencies.”

“Yeah, I’ll do that, Faith, but what are we gonna find? You think Martinez will survive the ass-whooping Delgado got?”

“Focus on what will go right, Detective,” Faith said, echoing her mentor’s mantra. “Not what could go wrong.”

After a brief pause, Marcus said, “You’re right. I’m sorry. It’s just… Shit!”

“I know,” Faith agreed. “This sucks. Call animal control for the dog, then meet me in the house. We’re going to set up here for now while we try to figure out where he might have taken her. Do you still have units at Kane’s house?”

“Yeah, Garland and Eli are there waiting for CSI.”

“Keep them there even if CSI finishes. And send more units to back them up. Do we know what kind of car Peter drives?”

“I’ll look it up. Let’s see, uh… Shit, we don’t have his license.”

“Stay calm, Marcus. We can ask Public Safety—”

“I know how to get a driver’s license, Faith.”

Faith clammed up. She was clearly not helping the situation. She resisted the urge to throw her radio into the fence, and that told her that her own emotions weren’t under control.

Turk whined and looked back at the dog. Kane clearly wasn’t here, so she decided to let Turk stay with him. “Go ahead, Turk. Protect.”

Turk sped to the downed dog’s side and stood with his head high and his ears alert. Faith jogged into the house, cursing inwardly and struggling to stay calm.

Marcus stood in the living room talking to dispatch. “…white Jeep Gladiator, Minnesota license plate HHR093. Driver is Peter Kane, thirty, Caucasian male, six-foot-four, two hundred twenty-five pounds. He is believed to have kidnapped Jennifer Martinez. There are signs of a struggle at the residence and a chemically sedated K9 in the backyard.”

When Marcus mentioned a struggle, Faith looked around and realized that the living room was indeed torn up. The tv had fallen over and the screen had shattered onto the carpet. The couch was pushed off of center, and in the dining room beyond, Faith saw that one of the chairs was on its back.

Jennifer had fought too. That worried Faith. Peter had badly beaten Delgado when she fought him.

He might not know that we’re after him. He might think he’s in the clear, and that might keep her safe until he gets where he’s going.

The problem was that Faith had no idea where he was going. For all she knew, he was already there, and Jennifer was already dead.

No! She couldn’t believe that. They’d saved people buried underground before. They could save her. They had to.

She wished desperately that wanting something badly enough guaranteed that you’d receive it, but she knew better than that. Sometimes you could do everything right and still fail.

Not this time. Please, not this time.

***

Jennifer’s head smacked against something hard. She jolted to wakefulness and reached for her rifle. “Shit! ISIS units attacking! Everyone move your asses!”

Except she didn’t reach for her rifle because her hands were bound behind her back, and she didn’t warn her squad about ISIS because she had tape over her mouth. She blinked and looked around. She wasn’t in a foxhole. She was in the backseat of a pickup truck. The man driving the truck was one of those tall, lanky-muscular types.

Her memory came flooding back to her, hearing noises outside, coming out to see Bear on the ground with a needle in his leg, hearing the whoosh as another needle missed her by inches. She’d run inside and locked the doors to call nine-one-one, but he found a way in anyway. She’d fought as well as she could, but he had jammed her in the thigh with one of those darts, and less than a minute later, she was dead to the world.

God, I hate that that’s how I phrased it.

Panic slid up her spine, gripping her heart like a vise and threatening to overturn her sanity. She’d been kidnapped. A freaking man had kidnapped her and was now taking her away in his truck. She wasn’t sure what he planned to do with her when they got wherever they were going, but none of the answers to that question were good.

She tried to sit up, only to find that, of course, her legs were bound too. He had been careful.

He glanced at her in the rearview mirror. His eyes widened. “Holy shit. You’re awake already?”

His voice sounded normal. For some reason, she found that hilarious. She had been kidnapped by a guy who looked like he bumped metalcore in his earbuds while lurking at the gym waiting to hit on girls in yoga pants and sounded like Joe McSchmoe who you’d meet anywhere.

She giggled, the sound muffled and distorted by the tape covering her mouth. Her head hurt. Whatever he’d given her had made her loopy.

“Hmm. You must have a tolerance for ketamine. I would have used the pheno, but that chemical’s potent. It can be dicey for dogs that weigh less than a hundred pounds.”

That explained why she was awake. She’d taken ketamine off and on for ADHD for years. She had built up a bit of a tolerance for it. Not enough to save her, though.

“We’ll just leave you awake,” her captor said. “I don’t usually get to talk to you guys before I kill you, but I guess it’s fair that one of you know why I’m doing this. Especially since you’ll be my last one in Duluth.”

Jennifer twisted her wrists and ankles to try to pull out of the bonds, but they held tight. She was well and truly stuck. She had no choice but to listen to Forever Frat Boy while he told her why it was okay for him to murder her.

“I lost my dog last year,” he explained. “Monkey. He was a golden German Shepherd, just like Bear. I loved that dog more than I loved myself.”

He paused a moment, his knuckles going white as his grip on the steering wheel strengthened. He took a deep breath and continued. “So anyway, Monkey and I were assigned with a few other K9s to sniff out stragglers from the ISIS retreat outside of Damascus. Our glorious leader, Captain Fucknuts McRetard, decided that the best way to do that was to put the K9s ahead of everyone else. I don’t know what movie he saw that made him think this was a good idea. We have drones for a reason. K9s shouldn’t be doing that kind of recon anymore. But McRetard didn’t care. Nope. Use the dogs.

“Well, we used the dogs. All four of them died.”

He fell silent again. His shoulders shook, and after a few seconds, Jennifer realized he was crying. “Monkey… He got… I saw him get shot. He was cut in half by machine guns. Literally cut in half. I saw it happen.”

He took a deep breath and got himself under control. “We took the position. After, I… kind of lost it. I don’t remember everything, but I guess I put Captain Fucknuts in the hospital. They did a hearing and decided that it was my fault that Monkey had died. Can you imagine that? My fault that my German Shepherd did exactly as he was ordered to by my commanding officer. They had a Marine NCO head up at the hearing, too. I guess he’s a big boy in the K9 world. Was, anyway. I killed him. Sliced both of his carotids open.”

An involuntary whimper escaped Jennifer’s throat.

“Oh, don’t worry,” the man said. “I’m not going to cut you. I’m going to hang you.”

Another whimper escaped, followed by a shiver. Jennifer hated to show her fear to him, but she was afraid. She was terrified. This man was going to kill her in one of the worst ways imaginable.

“I know it’s brutal,” he said, “but I’m angry. It’s not fair. You got to come home with Bear because of the policies that I insisted they implement. They listened to me, but they also dishonorably discharged me. They stabbed me in the fucking back. I didn’t deserve that.”

I don’t deserve to die either, she thought. Why the hell are you punishing me?

“So, I’m going to tie a rope around your neck, throw it over a girder and pull up on it until your feet leave the ground. Then I’ll just leave you there until you stop kicking.”

While Jennifer tried to comprehend what she was hearing, the truck pulled to a stop. “Okay,” the man said. “We’re here. Hop on out.” He looked at her. “Nothing personal, kiddo. I just need to do this.”

Jennifer wanted to beg him, to plead with him and convince him that he didn’t need to do this.

But her lips were taped closed. She had no choice but to sit where she was and wait for him to do whatever he wanted.

The man sighed and pulled him out of the truck. “Okay. Come on. Let’s not make it any harder than it has to be.”

She stumbled after him, praying silently that someone would find her before it was too late.

CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE

Faith couldn’t sit still and wait anymore. The APB had been active for an hour, and they hadn’t found any sign of him. That meant that he was well outside of the city, probably on an unmarked dirt road somewhere far from civilization. That meant that Jennifer Martinez was most likely dead. She wasn’t going to twiddle her thumbs and wait for Marcus to tell her that they’d found her body in a ditch just like they’d found Delgado.

So, as soon as animal control arrived to pick up Bear, she told Marcus, “I’m going back to Kane’s house. I think there’s something there that might tell us where he’s taking her.”

“Do you really think so?”

She sighed. “I really think I need to do something other than sit on my ass. Do you want to come with me?”

Marcus nodded. “Yes, I’ll come with you. I’m not much of a fan of sitting down, either. There’s nothing more we can do here anyway.”

The three of them left the house, Marcus pausing only to say a quick word to Tranh.

The night had deepened to its full darkness when they pulled onto the street and accelerated back the way they came. The truck’s headlights reflected off of the snow eerily, making it look to Faith like they were in some sort of supernatural horror movie.

Hell, my life is a horror movie, and none of it seems natural.

Kane’s house was lit by the half-dozen emergency units that remained there. Faith wasn’t sure what the point was of having so many officers sitting around doing nothing. Unless they were actively searching for clues to Kane’s whereabouts inside.

They weren’t. As nearly as she could tell, they were standing around and looking important. Her brow furrowed, and she nearly flew off of the handle at them, but she just managed to remain professional.

“All of you, stop whatever you’re doing right now and search this house. We need to know where Kane plans on taking Jennifer Martinez. Look for anything that might yield a clue.”

The officers blinked and looked at Marcus. “She means now,” Marcus offered helpfully.

The officers—to their credit—jumped into gear. Within a minute, they had partitioned the house into sections and begun searching. Faith and Marcus reserved the garage for themselves.

Turk jumped in with his nose to the ground, doing his best to help the humans. Marcus used his flashlight to look for anything that might be hidden or dropped. Faith went to the table that contained the dossiers on the victims. Maybe she’d get lucky and find the location he planned to take Jennifer buried somewhere in there.

Besides the stack of papers that Kane kept on his victims, there were piles of articles related to K9s in law enforcement and the military. Many of them focused on policy changes and scandals. Some of the clippings were highlighted and more than one stained with tears. Kane’s obsession had clearly grown catastrophic. She wondered what had finally pushed him over the edge.

Worry about that later. Find Martinez first.

She moved on from the newspaper clippings to a box of different chemical formulas. Faith didn’t recognize any of them until she read a note in the margin of one page that said TOO UNSTABLE AND INTERACTS POORLY WITH XYLAZINE.

Evidently, these were the chemical formulas of different drugs used to quicken the time of onset. Faith skimmed through them, and when she found no notes that said, TAKE JENNIFER TO THIS EXACT ADDRESS AND HERE ARE THE COORDINATES, she tossed the papers to the side.

She got to her feet and put her hands on her hips, frustrated. He had to have a reason to take her somewhere. Marcus had units searching the forest behind her house, but he wouldn’t take her somewhere that close. He had to have a place picked out. Winging it had nearly gotten him caught on the Air National Guard base. He would have planned this one out meticulously.

She caught Marcus’s eyes and saw the same frustration on his face. He sighed. “I can’t find shit. Nothing.”

She shook her head. “I don’t accept that. There has to be something.”

Her eyes landed on the safe. “Has anyone opened that yet?”

“The safe? Not yet. We planned to have a locksmith come out tomorrow.”

Faith shook her head. “No, we need to get in there now. It’s the last place we haven’t checked. The answer must be in there.”

Marcus sighed. “Faith, I know this is important to you, but—”

Faith’s eyes flashed. “Don’t finish that sentence. Find a way to open that damned safe ASAP.”

Marcus sighed again, but a slight smile came to his face after. “Of course, Special Agent Bold.”

His tone sounded more admiring than sarcastic. He lifted his radio to his lips. “Ralston, can I borrow you?”

A moment later, a uniformed officer arrived. He looked about three years too young to shave, but when Marcus asked him to break them into the safe, he pulled three odd-looking tools from his pocket, and, using a combination of movements that looked random, he opened the door.

Faith stared at him, impressed. He blushed. “My cousin installs safes in homes. He’s taught me a few things.”

“Well, thank you,” Faith said. Here’s hoping you saved a life.

The safe, as expected, contained Peter’s actual guns: an AR copy, a sawed-off shotgun, a handgun, and a compound hunting bow. She felt her hope fade as she felt around for a hidden compartment and looked underneath the boxes of ammo for something, anything.

“Come on, come on, come on!” she shouted. “Damn it!”

“Faith!”

Faith looked up at Marcus, who pointed at the door. She looked at it and gasped. Stickers covered almost every square inch of the door’s interior.

Every single sticker sported an image of an old aircraft hangar. Several of the stickers named the airport as Birding General Aviation Airfield.

It was a long shot if there ever was one, but it was better than nothing.

***

The truck bounced and jostled up the hill toward the airport. Birding Airfield had closed thirteen years ago, and just like James Cooper’s property, the structures had been left fallow. Faith immediately recognized the hangar from the stickers, and when they pulled up close, she recognized the Jeep Gladiator.

She pumped her fist with excitement and said into her radio. “Okay, everyone. We all go in at once. If you see Kane, shoot him. Nonlethals first, but have your lethal rounds ready if that doesn’t work.”

Besides, herself, Turk, and Marcus, six of the officers from Kane’s home had joined them. Marcus was taking no chances.

Neither was Faith. Though she was terrified of coming in too late, she understood that Kane could be laying in wait for them, and if he managed to take them out with some darts, then all of their lives would be in danger as well. So, she waited for all of them to be positioned outside of the door.

“Okay. One. Two. Three!”

A few things happened at the same time when they burst into the hangar. First, Faith saw a rope hanging over one of the exposed beams of the roof. One end of the rope was tied in a noose.

Second, Faith saw Jennifer Martinez, hog-tied and struggling against Peter Kane, who was lifting her head into the noose. Kane lifted his eyes to them and cried out, “Shit!”

Turk sprinted for Kane, but Kane pressed a handgun that looked very much like the kind that shoots bullets up against Jennifer’s head. “Call him off or I kill her!” he shouted, turning so that Jennifer stayed in between him and Turk.

The other officers trained their weapons on Kane, but no one risked firing with that gun pressed to Jennifer’s head. Marcus whispered, “Dispatch, we have a ten-sixteen. Need a ten-twenty-two and a ten-twelve, stat.”

Faith assumed he was calling for SWAT. They had sharpshooters who could give them a more secure shot.

If they got here in time. She needed to try to slow things “Hey!” she called. “Peter!”

Kane looked at her, his pupils wide. “Don’t you dare send that dog after me!”

“I won’t. But you know what, Peter, I also know you won’t hurt him.”

“I don’t want to hurt him, but if you give me no choice, I’ll do what I have to do.”

“I won’t put him in harm’s way. I love that dog. I love him more than anything else on Earth.”

Kane’s lips pulled back in a snarl. “Oh yeah? Well, I loved my dog too. You know what happened to him?”

“I don’t. Why don’t you tell me?” She was just stalling for time, but anything she could do to hold out until sharpshooters got here or someone else had a shot was worth the effort.

“He was killed on a mission because some asshole didn’t know how K9s worked. Then they tried to blame me for that. Can you believe that? They tried to blame me for their stupid mistake. They said it was my fault Monkey died.”

Tears streamed down his face now. He whimpered and sniffled, his hands shaking.

“Hey,” Faith said, taking a few steps closer. “I get it. Bosses are assholes. It wasn’t fair what happened to you. But killing innocent people won’t change anything.”

“They’re not innocent!”

“Why? Why is Jennifer Martinez not innocent?”

Kane blinked. He looked at Jennifer as though seeing her for the first time. “It’s just not fair. Why does she get to keep her dog, but I don’t?”

“What happened to you was terrible,” Faith agreed, “but she didn’t do anything to you herself. That was the bosses. The brass. Trust me, I know how it feels to have the brass make idiot decisions, and then we’re the ones who have to suffer for it. I was USMC in Afghanistan. Three tours. Oo-rah, but let’s not do it again, if you know what I mean.”

Kane released a sound that could have been a chuckle, a sob or both. “I just hate it. It’s not fair. They said it was my fault.”

“It wasn’t your fault.”

“I know it wasn’t my fault!” he shrieked.

“Okay,” she said, lifting her hands and taking another step. “Okay. I’m just letting you know that I know.”

Kane breathed heavily. His eyes moved around the officers watching him. Jennifer whimpered, and he glared at her, but then looked up at the officers. “You guys are going to kill me the second she dies, aren’t you?”

“If she dies, yes, but if you let her go, then we won’t kill you.”

Kane lowered his head and stuck his lip out in a pout. “It’s too late. I’m going to prison for the rest of my life.”

“It’s a life,” Faith argued. “It’s a lot better than going nowhere at all.” She inched closer, keeping her hands raised and waiting for the moment to strike.

Kane shook his head. “No, it isn’t. I wish it was, but it isn’t.” He gave Faith a smile. “Well, this was going to happen eventually, but at least I got some of them, right?”

Faith lunged forward, but she was too late. Kane fired, and a hole opened in his forehead. Blood, bone, and brain matter sprayed from the back of his head. He slumped in Faith’s arms, and she lowered him to the ground.

The police officers immediately rushed to Jennifer to provide first aid and free her from her bonds. Faith looked at Peter Kane’s face and wondered when the last time was that he’d looked so peaceful.

It didn’t happen often that Faith felt any sympathy for a murderer, but when Faith trotted next to her and she thought about how she would survive if Turk was killed, she found herself sympathizing with Peter Kane. Not with his actions, but with the trauma he’d experienced that left him like this.

“It’s all right now,” Marcus said to Jennifer. “It’s over.”

“Yes,” Faith agreed, releasing Peter’s body and getting to her feet. “It’s all right now.”

CHAPTER TWENTY SIX

“A reign of terror came to a swift and brutal end last night when Duluth Police rescued Sergeant Jennifer Martinez from the clutches of a crazed murderer. Peter Kane, a former Marine K9 officer who was dishonorably discharged for assaulting his commanding officer, was killed in a tense standoff with police in the hangar of the defunct Birding General Aviation Airport. According to the lead officer on the case, Detective Marcus Waring, Kane was responsible for the murders of Master Sergeant Thomas Reeves and Army Staff Sergeant Kevin Walsh along with the savage beating of Air Force Technical Sergeant Maria Delgado.”

Faith smiled at Marcus and lifted her coffee while the news report detailed how they’d found Jennifer and Kane. Marcus chuckled and lifted his own. “To an end to this bullshit.”

“To the bullshit to follow.”

Marcus laughed again. “Yeah, you know how it goes. That’s what we do, right?”

“If not us, then who?” Faith quipped. “Honestly, though, good work back there.”

“Me? You’re the one who figured it all out.”

“You found the airport sticker. You made sure the right pieces were in the right places so we could respond to the situation. Don’t sell yourself short. I might have been the silent partner, but that doesn’t mean you’re just a mouthpiece.”

“Well… thank you. I admit, it feels nice to save a life instead of just figure out who took one.”

“It’s a good feeling,” Faith agreed.

“Channel Seven spoke with doctors at the hospital this morning, and they say that Maria Delgado is expected to make a full recovery.”

The news feed cut to an image of a serious-looking doctor standing in front of the hospital. “I’m not at liberty to share details for patient privacy reasons, but I can say with confidence that Miss Delgado will leave this hospital walking under her own power within a few weeks. She has a tough road ahead of her, but she’s in good spirits, and I and the rest of her care team believe she’ll be back to one hundred percent eventually.”

“That feels good too,” Marcus said.

“Yes,” Faith agreed. “Thank God for that.” She grinned. “You know this is the first case I’ve worked in years where I caught the serial killer before he killed another victim?”

Marcus raised an eyebrow. “Is that so? I guess I should be honored.”

“Yeah. We always get them, but they just move so fast nowadays. I mean, Delgado surviving was because Kane didn’t know he hadn’t finished the job, but it still feels good.”

Marcus smiled, but it was a brief smile this time and replaced with a pensive look. “They do move fast these days, don’t they? Back in the day, you had guys like Bundy, Rader, Gacy, Dahmer… They killed a lot of people, but they did it over the course of months and years. Now you have a lot of people dropping three, four, five people in as many weeks. Sometimes in as many days.”

He shook his head and took another sip of his coffee. “My brother’s a criminal justice professor. I talked to him about this a few months ago, and he said that it’s likely things like this have been going on forever, it’s just that we know about it more now because the internet has made all of this information accessible and police departments tend to share information and seek help rather than conceal information.”

“He might be right,” Faith said. I like it a lot more than my hypothesis.

Her hypothesis was that the sensationalism surrounding Jethro Trammell had led to a rise in “emulators.” Most of those emulators were disturbed people like Kane who had their own petty vendettas to air out, but a few, like Franklin West and Kenneth Langeveldt—known as the Family Man for his penchant for paralyzing groups of three people at a time to stand in for his parents and his sister—saw Trammell as an artist and aspired to reach that level as murderers themselves.

Then again, did she really want killing sprees to be a longtime historical trait of humanity? At least with the emulator hypothesis, you could argue that it was an anomaly that could be corrected. If it was instead—as Marcus suggested—something people had always been doing, then it meant humanity was fated to repeat this cycle for the rest of its existence.

She finished the rest of her coffee and stood. “Marcus, it was a pleasure to work with you. Feel free to call me anytime you need help.”

He stood and took her outstretched hand. “I’d like to call you from time to time, but if you don’t mind me saying, I’d prefer to do so as a friend rather than a colleague. I’d just as soon not have to deal with any more serial killers in Duluth. It’s bad enough that it’s colder than Jack Frost’s ass out here.”

Faith laughed and pulled Marcus into an embrace. “I’d like that too.”

***

Back at the hotel, Faith found herself dwelling on the emulator hypothesis. It wasn’t a perfect theory by any means, but it made too much sense for her to dismiss it out of hand.

Jethro Trammell wasn’t the first “celebrity” serial killer by any means, but he was the first in a long time to be treated almost as a hero. He was a seven-foot-tall farmer who had dropped out of high school, but despite this, he’d successfully evaded the FBI for months. He’d killed at least seven and possibly as many as eleven people in horrifying fashion, and the theatricality of his method rivaled the most appalling of murders. Faith should know. He’d been in the middle of that method when Michael rescued her.

And that was perhaps the most damning thing Trammell had done. His seven murders included a senior FBI field agent who was at the time the best agent in the Bureau and the severe injury of another FBI field agent who became the most celebrated agent in the Bureau.

He’d made them look like fools. That’s what made him famous.

And then came Franklin West. In many ways, he was the opposite of Jethro Trammell. He was of average height and slight build. He had a gentle voice and thinning hair, and by the time he became known to the world, he was in his mid-forties. He looked utterly non-threatening, but the truth was that, in any objective sense, he was far more dangerous than Trammell. Trammell had considerable low cunning, but West was actually intelligent. Brutally so. It was a wonderful coincidence that he was also insane, or he might never have made the mistakes that eventually led to his capture.

But now, he had become more famous than Trammell. He was known to have killed thirty-two people, although he claimed to Faith to have killed almost twice that many. He had also murdered a senior FBI agent and tormented another. His M.O., at least during the period which the authorities knew about, was very similar to Trammell’s because he worshipped Trammell like a Messiah.

And now there was the Messenger. She had already killed a senior FBI agent and was actively taunting another. The same agent that Trammell had tortured, and West had psychologically tormented.

Faith flinched as it hit her for the first time that she was the link between all three. Three t dangerous serial killers had all been obsessed with her. How long would it be before the wider public fixated on that narrative?

Her phone buzzed, causing her to flinch again and cry out loudly enough that Turk jumped to his feet and scanned the room for threats. Unfortunately, this was a threat that Turk couldn’t help her with.

“Easy, boy. It’s just my boss.”

Not the Boss. That was a title that would always be reserved for Grant Monroe.

She answered. “Hello, ma’am.”

“Special Agent Bold,” ASAC Tabitha Gardner replied. “Congratulations on solving this case.”

“Thank you.”

Tabitha took a deep breath and released it slowly. Faith wondered if she had to exaggerate that so Faith could hear it over the phone.

“I’ve spoken with your partner, Special Agent Prince.”

Faith’s brow furrowed. “Michael talked to you?”

“He did. He and Special Agent Desrouleaux elected to interrupt a meeting between me and Deputy Director Smythe.” Her tone told Faith that she wasn’t at all happy about that interruption. “They told me they had worked with you on a new hypothesis about the Messenger Killer.”

“Oh?” Faith replied neutrally. She wasn’t sure exactly where Tabitha was going with this yet.

“Yes. They are of the opinion that the Messenger Killer is not obsessed with you so much as she’s obsessed with Franklin West. It seems that some evidence”—she said it like a curse word—“has come to light that suggests the Messenger Killer has been in correspondence with Mr. West. The content of some of those letters is… shall we say, intriguing.”

“I see,” Faith said, still noncommittal.

There was a brief pause. Then Tabitha dropped the professional act. “Okay, let’s cut the bullshit. Your partner snooped around on a case that wasn’t his and got extremely lucky. He found evidence that has turned a case we were trying to keep quiet into yet another media clusterfuck, only this time, we’re going to do it to ourselves because his royal highness Smythe has decided that we should publish the communications between one serial killer and another to root out the currently active killer.”

“I’m sorry if I made trouble for you, ma’am, but I’d like to clarify something. My partner didn’t get extremely lucky. He used his high-level deductive skills to postulate a hypothetical motivation for a known serial killer’s actions, then gathered evidence that ended up supporting that hypothesis. The short version of what I just said is that he’s a good detective. He detected the answer and brought the Bureau much closer to finding this killer.”

“Excuse me?”

“Ma’am, I don’t mean to be rude, but you walked into one of the most active field offices in the United States and tried to run it by the book. There’s a reason why your agents aren’t following your instructions. We’ve achieved great success in the past because we were allowed to operate in a manner that’s comfortable to us, not simply follow the letter of the law.”

Faith didn’t know how wise it was to speak to her superior—even an acting superior—like this, but Tabitha had a particular skill at getting Faith’s blood up.

“Well, I’m sorry to hear that your predecessor thought it was all right to let you act like a bunch of little sailboats making your own merry way throughout the world, but that’s not how I’m going to run my field office. It’s just not acceptable. Why should you all be allowed to break rules when no one else is?”

“Because we’re very good at catching bad guys, ma’am.”

Tabitha was quiet for so long that Faith thought she might have hung up. Before she asked if Tabitha was still on, though, the ASAC said tonelessly, “At Director Smythe’s request, you will return to Philadelphia and resume your duties as a field agent at this office. I’m emailing your flight information now.”

She hung up, and Faith smiled with excitement. Tabitha hadn’t directly said that Faith was being given the Messenger case, but there was no other reason why she would be brought back to Philadelphia. If not immediately, then soon, Faith would finally be able to directly address the killer who was taunting her.

She smiled at Turk. “Change of plans, Turk. Cousin Eddie’s party will have to wait a little longer. We’re going back home.

“And when we get there, we’re going to catch another bad guy.”

EPILOGUE

Lillian sat bolt upright, hands folded primly in her lap, eyes wide, lips pressed in a thin line. She was naturally pale, but what little color she possessed had drained entirely from her face as she watched the tv.

“The most sensational trial in the nation has gained a salacious new twist,” the anchor—who looked more plastic than person to Lillian—informed her audience. “Dr. Franklin West—the alleged Copycat Killer who most believe has surpassed his inspiration, the infamous Donkey Killer, Jethro Trammell—has long been a subject of fascination for people, but for some, he’s the subject of a very different kind of fascination.

“Sources in the FBI’s Philadelphia Field Office have told Channel Eleven that a number of women have sent love letters to the alleged killer. Some of these letters include macabre promises to murder people in West’s name. A few even go into detail of how they would plan to murder others to honor West’s legacy. Several of them specifically name famed FBI Special Agent Faith Bold as a target. As many of you know, Faith Bold’s efforts contributed significantly to the identification and eventual capture of West, and during his trial, it came to light that West had developed an obsession with the femme fatale Agent Bold.”

Femme fatale? Femme fatale? That cow? She was pretty enough, Lillian supposed, but femme fatale? Come on. She wasn’t at all Frank’s type. Frank wasn’t flirting with her, he was taunting her. He enjoyed hurting her, he didn’t fantasize about her in a romantic way.

“What’s even more shocking is the recent discovery that West has been returning some of these letters, referring to the hybristophiles with terms of endearment and even going so far as to suggest that they might enjoy a romantic relationship when he is freed.”

Lillian gasped. Some color came back to her cheeks to rest in flecks on her forehead and points just above her cheekbones. Frank? Had written them back?

But… he hadn’t written her back.

She listened in shock as the anchor read some of the letters that Frank had written. The language in them was flowery and silly—clearly a private joke on Frank’s part and not to be taken seriously. But still… he hadn’t written Lillian back.

He had to know that she was different. He had to know that she wasn’t like them. She wasn’t just some bored tramp obsessed with death. She was an artist seeking to worship the master. No, even better. She sought to surpass him. He had inspired her to overtake him just as Trammell had inspired Frank. Why would he waste time teasing these whores but not even send her a single letter to tell her that he saw her, that he knew her, that he wanted…

But did he see her? Of course he did. He had to have seen her. They made eye contact. He… she…

She reached for the remote and turned the television off, then folded her hands in her lap again. It was clear now. She had been a very silly girl. Of course, he hadn’t seen her. Why would he have seen her? She had tried to seduce him with a dress and makeup and by teasing her hair. She had literally been inspired by the memory of how she lost her virginity.

Frank wasn’t a high school student. He wasn’t some boy that Lillian was trying to use to check a box on the list of “things to do to become an adult.” He was an artist. He didn’t want to see another dolled-up slut. He wanted to see art.

“Oh, I’ll give him art,” she said. “I’ll give him art like he’s never seen.”

She got to her feet and headed to the shower. She felt slimy after watching that news special.

But the slime would wash away. She would fix this. She would show West that there was only one woman worth his attention. It wasn’t those hyper… hubris… whatever they were. It certainly wasn’t that hoity-toity goody-two-shoes definitely-not-femme-fatale Faith Bold.

No, it was her. Lillian Martin. The Messenger Killer. The third Messiah walking in the footsteps of Jethro Trammell and Franklin West.

As the warm water cascaded over her body, she felt herself relax. This was only a minor setback. It wasn’t the end of the world. She would fix it, and when she did, West and everyone else would know the truth.

“He’ll see,” she reassured herself. “They’ll all see.”

She left the shower, toweled off, and ordered a pizza for dinner. She turned the TV on and switched the news off. She’d seen enough of that. She’d rent a movie tonight and decompress.

Then, in the morning, she would find a way to get Faith Bold’s attention. Something big. Something shocking. Something she couldn’t ignore. A message that she would have no choice but to respond to.

NOW AVAILABLE!

SO LETHAL

(A Faith Bold Mystery—Book 22)

Deafness becomes a deadly weapon in the hands of a vengeful killer seeking liberation through silence. As panic grips those who live in a world without sound, it’s up to FBI Agent Faith Bold and her sharp-eared canine Turk to tune into clues hidden in plain hearing and stop the symphony of silent slaughter.

 “A masterpiece of thriller and mystery.”

—Books and Movie Reviews, Roberto Mattos (re Once Gone)

SO LETHAL is Book #22 in a long-anticipated new series by #1 bestseller and USA Today bestselling author Blake Pierce, whose bestseller Once Gone (a free download) has received over 7,000 five star ratings and reviews.

FBI Special Agent Faith Bold doesn’t believe she can ever return to the force after the trauma she’s been through. Suffering from past demons, she feels unfit for duty and content to retire—until Turk walks into her life.

Turk, a former Marine Corps dog, wounded in battle, suffers from his own demons. But he never lets it show as he gives everything to Faith to get her back on her feet.

Each are slow to warm up to each other, but when they do, they are inseparable. Each is equally determined to hunt down the demons chasing them, whatever the cost, and to watch each other’s backs—even at the risk of their own life.

A page-turning and harrowing crime thriller featuring a brilliant and tortured FBI agent, the Faith Bold series is a riveting mystery, packed with non-stop action, suspense, twists and turns, revelations, and driven by a breakneck pace that will keep you flipping pages late into the night. Fans of Rachel Caine, Teresa Driscoll and Robert Dugoni are sure to fall in love.

Future books in the series are now also available.

“An edge of your seat thriller in a new series that keeps you turning pages! …So many twists, turns and red herrings… I can’t wait to see what happens next.”

—Reader review (Her Last Wish)

“A strong, complex story about two FBI agents trying to stop a serial killer. If you want an author to capture your attention and have you guessing, yet trying to put the pieces together, Pierce is your author!”

—Reader review (Her Last Wish)

“A typical Blake Pierce twisting, turning, roller coaster ride suspense thriller. Will have you turning the pages to the last sentence of the last chapter!!!”

—Reader review (City of Prey)

“Right from the start we have an unusual protagonist that I haven’t seen done in this genre before. The action is nonstop… A very atmospheric novel that will keep you turning pages well into the wee hours.”

—Reader review (City of Prey)

“Everything that I look for in a book… a great plot, interesting characters, and grabs your interest right away. The book moves along at a breakneck pace and stays that way until the end. Now on go I to book two!”

—Reader review (Girl, Alone)

“Exciting, heart pounding, edge of your seat book… a must read for mystery and suspense readers!”

—Reader review (Girl, Alone)

SO LETHAL

(A Faith Bold Mystery—Book 22)

Blake Pierce

USA Today and #1 bestselling author Blake Pierce is the author of numerous series in the mystery and thriller genres, spanning 10 years of work, including the Jessie Hunt, Ella Dark, Rylie Page, Faith Bold and Rachel Gift series. Blake’s most recent latest releases are the Jenna Graves, Alison Payne, Isla Rivers and Kari Blackhorse series.

Please visit blakepierceauthor.com to learn more, join the email list, receive free books, and stay in touch.

SERIES BY BLAKE PIERCE

KARI BLACKHORSE

ISLA RIVERS

ALISON PAYNE

JENNA GRAVES

THE GOVERNESS

RACHEL BLACKWOOD

SHEILA STONE

FINN WRIGHT

MORGAN CROSS

JULIETTE HART

FAITH BOLD

FIONA RED

DAISY FORTUNE

AMBER YOUNG

CAMI LARK

NICKY LYONS

CORA SHIELDS

MAY MOORE

PAIGE KING

VALERIE LAW

RACHEL GIFT

AVA GOLD

A YEAR IN EUROPE

ELLA DARK

LAURA FROST

EUROPEAN VOYAGE

ADELE SHARP

THE AU PAIR

ZOE PRIME

JESSIE HUNT

CHLOE FINE

KATE WISE

THE MAKING OF RILEY PAIGE

RILEY PAIGE

MACKENZIE WHITE

AVERY BLACK

KERI LOCKE