Chapter 19

JACK CRANKED THE SUV INTO a U-turn, and we were headed back to the country roads. All it took was the relaying of Paige's findings and we were after a man named Quinton Davis of Sycamore Street.

Paige said they were fine and still waiting on the CSIs to process everything. Deputy White had headed out to get them food and coffee. They were doing better than we were. And they were definitely doing better than I was. It was time to put my training to use.

Paige said that we couldn't have someone from the county provide death notification, not even the sheriff. Despite the fact that the community was tightly connected, they seemed to have missed that Earl Royster was a homosexual, and apparently down here that was a big deal. And because I missed out on notifying Nancy Windermere about her daughter, Jack figured it was my turn this time.

Quinton Davis could have played linebacker, with his thick torso and weight of at least two hundred and sixty to three hundred pounds. He studied us after we announced ourselves as FBI.

"We're here about Earl Royster."

Arms crossed, uncrossed, and then he slipped his hands into the pockets of his shorts. "Why come here?"

I answered honestly. "We know you were romantically involved."

Quinton looked down the street before stepping back and allowing us into his house. "Come this way." He directed us to the living room and a burnt orange sofa.

Quinton took a seat across from us in a reclining chair that dated back before the sofa. "What's Earl up to now?" He smiled. His teeth were tainted yellow against his dark skin. My guess was due to age and lack of hygiene, not a nicotine addiction as the place didn't smell of cigarettes.

I swallowed deeply. The plan was to simply notify him of his boyfriend's death, gauge his reaction, and check out his residence—what we could see of it anyway—and get out. We were to keep a low profile so as not to scare him away if he was the unsub we were still looking for.

"It's not good, is it?" The man leaned forward, rubbed his hands on his thighs. He knew what was coming. His earlier reaction had been a mask to hide it.

"I'm afraid not."

Jack watched me, and I knew what he was trying to communicate, get to the point.

"Earl Royster was shot late this afternoon."

"Oh—" A hand covered his mouth. It dropped as quickly as it made contact, leaving his gaping mouth exposed. His eyes searched for details.

"We went there to question him—"

"You shot him?" His bottom lip quaked, tears pooled in his eyes.

"No, I—"

"You did." Quinton's eyes darted to Jack.

I came to his defense. "Earl held a gun on a federal agent."

"No, no, I don't believe it." He shook his head.

"Has he been strange lately?"

Quinton's eyes hardened. "You should go."

I looked at Jack, who instead of moving to leave settled into the couch.

"We just need to understand why he would do something like that."

"Why? So you can make yourself feel better?" Quinton rose to his feet, came toward Jack. "You took him away from me."

I stood between them. Jack didn't move. I put a flat hand out toward Quinton hoping he would stop there. He didn't until pressure was applied, my hand flattened and pressed into the meat of his chest. He kept going until my wrist bent back. His frame towered over me, dwarfing my six foot two by easily another three inches. "I'm going to have to ask you to step back."

"This is my house."

The message contained in his eyes was one of conflict. He was a large man, but I pounced on the weakness evidenced beneath the surface. "You are also suspected of involvement with what Earl was so I suggest you back off."

"What do you mean?"

I wanted to look back at Jack. We had discussed this on the ride over—what to disclose, what to withhold. But as was normally the case when it came to communicating with Jack, there were holes in the conclusions. Heck, there were even voids in the middle of the context. "Sit down back over there and we'll talk."

Quinton held eye contact for a few more seconds before complying.

I flexed my wrist in relief when he retreated. Now the pressure on it was gone, the joint ached from having been held back. I dropped onto the orange sofa.

"What do you think he did?" Quinton dropped a hand on the arm of the chair.

"This is still part of an open investigation—"

"Don't feed me that bullshit. I won't eat it." Quinton didn't get up, but moved to the edge of the chair. It groaned under his weight.

"He fired on us—," I gestured between Jack and me, "—when we showed up to talk to him. Once the situation calmed down, he pulled a gun on another agent."

"You said you got the situation calmed down? That situation was my husband."

"Husband?"

"The great state of Kentucky might not allow it, but we were where it mattered." He balled up a hand, thumped it over his heart.

"You obviously knew him better than anyone." I glanced at Jack, asking in silence where I should go from here.

Jack said, "Evidence in our investigation thus far convicts Earl Royster as a murderer. He—"

"No way." Quinton got up from his chair. "I can't believe that. Don't you talk to me after you killed him!" A thick finger wagged at Jack.

I readied to come to his defense again if need be. Although based on what Jack had done back at the house to the CSIs Quinton should be more afraid of him.

Surprisingly Quinton just left the room. Jack and I shared a look which ended with him exhaling a deep breath, and a shrug of a shoulder. I didn't miss the message in his eyes, study the house, Kid. Even his pet names for me were coming through in telepathy now. I might need therapy when this was over.

The living room was outdated, yet decorated modestly. There was an oak mantle over the fireplace. A mirror hung over it and flowers in a vase showcased in front of it. No framed photographs anywhere. Had Royster been this man's entire life?

An abstract painting with slashes of bright colors hung crooked on a wall beside a bookshelf. It pointed out the obvious missing element to most living rooms. There was no TV. My attention went back to the bookshelf which was filled over-capacity with books of different thicknesses and sizes. The ones that couldn't fit in vertically with their spine displaying were layered horizontally on top.

I walked over to the shelf. If Quinton returned, I would tell him I loved books and was curious what ones he had. My eyes worked as fast as they could, taking in the titles, the colors, the images. I spoke quietly to Jack, "No Bible, and no book on the coinherence symbol."

When I turned to look at him, I noticed the front window coverings. The drapes were a jacquard pattern, and the only reason I knew that was because my wife insisted on buying similar curtains. She went on about how classy the pattern was and kept repeating its name as if she were an educated interior designer. It was probably the only one she could name.

Quinton came back into the room with a beer in his hand. It was already half gone. He stopped beside me.

I forced a smile. "You love to read."

"Yep." He dropped into the sofa chair.

I headed back to the couch. "Lovely curtains."

"Drapes. Thank you." Quinton swigged back on the beer bottle.

"Why did you leave the room?" I asked him.

Quinton held up the beer bottle, cocked it at an angle and put it back to his lips.

"I think there's more to it. Did Earl ever hurt you?"

He held the beer bottle to his lips, and cradled it there as if he considered taking another sip.

"He can't hurt you now. He's gone."

Quinton put the bottle down on an end table. The room was quiet enough to hear our breathing.

I was afraid to break the silence for fear Quinton would withdraw for good, but I also feared not prying into what he had to say. "What is it?" I leaned forward, my elbows coming to rest on my knees. I clasped my hands.

He took a deep, jagged inhale and stood up. He moved slowly, yet methodically and lifted the T-shirt he wore. Seeing what he revealed caused my stomach to toss.

Quinton kept pulling up his shirt. As he looked down to his torso, I glanced at Jack. The incisions weren't as deep as the ones on the victims, and the lengths were shorter, but they were laid out in the same pattern—the method of counting to five with lines. Quinton had eight lines—one set of five and three running vertically a few inches to the right. Most of them were scarred over. One was more recent.

"He said that it would liven things up." Quinton dropped his shirt. His eyes read of pain and shame.

"How long had he been doing this?"

"Years now. Five, six?"

"And that one?" I pointed to the fresh wound.

"Last night when he came home. He had too much to drink at the bar."

"Why did you put up with this?" I mentally compared the stature of Earl to Quinton. Quinton could have easily overpowered him.

"Where else was I s'posed to go? I loved him. He did love me."

"He had a strange way of showing it," Jack intercepted. The abruptness of his tone combined with the words spoken caused both Quinton and me to look at him. "I'm not saying anything you don't know. You don't abuse the ones you love."

"I disagree. Those are the ones that get the most abuse," Quinton said.

Interesting debate and currently I sided with Quinton.

"Let me guess, he apologized afterward." Jack's tone still dry, he patted his shirt pocket.

Quinton's eyes went to Jack's pocket, and then flitted to Jack's eyes. He must have noticed the bulge of the cigarette pack. The message in his eyes was, no smokin' in here. Quinton didn't comment on that audibly but what he did say was horrifying. "He would cut me with a knife from the kitchen drawer. As he did, he'd complain about it being too dull, not being the right kind." Quinton dropped into the chair again. "Afterward, when I had stopped screaming, I would cry from the residual pain. Earl'd look me in the eye. Touch the back of his hand to my forehead, caress it, and say, Shh, baby, don't cry."

Chapter 20

THE FORENSIC INVESTIGATION VEHICLES HAD left from in front of Royster's house. Deputy White's cruiser was parked on the road, and Sheriff Harris was standing in front of the chain link fence talking to Paige. Her hands were dug into her pockets, her arms fully extended. She rocked so slightly, one might not even notice, heel-toe, toe-heel. She did that when she was tired and ready to move on. She paused mid-tilt when we pulled up.

Jack walked between Harris and Paige and headed to the house. "We've got to talk."

"Excuse me," Paige said to Harris, putting a hand to his elbow.

I glanced over at him, and in the casting from the streetlights the man appeared to have aged over the last five hours.

Paige must have noticed my assessment. She leaned into me. "He had a hard time at the Windermere's. Sally was their only child. Nancy couldn't have kids after her."

"Hmm." The noise came from me, and I wished I had swallowed it.

Paige held an arm out in front of my chest and stopped walking.

"What?" I turned to face her. Maybe if I played it dumb, like I hadn't realized it, she would move on.

She was smiling. "You're starting to sound like him now."

I let out a breath I hadn't realized I was holding. "Please don't say that."

"It's bound to happen. You spend that much time around someone."

"Stop there." I was smiling now.

"Well." She held the door open for me.

I put an arm over her and got the door. "Ladies first."

"Thanks." She ducked to fit under me, and watched me as she passed through.

Being so close to her I smelled her perfume, sweet and lightly floral. I remembered our nights together. And her laugh, not the fake one she put on to be flirtatious or seductive, but her sincere laughter that came out when she was vulnerable. "No problem."

I turned back and looked at Harris. The toe of his shoe stubbed at the pavement, and his head faced downward watching it. I couldn't help but think if a seasoned man like the sheriff found notifications hard would it ever get easier?

My mind went to Quinton's face, how it fell as his eyes filled with tears of denial. In that moment, I had taken everything away from him.

"You coming, Kid?"

I watched Harris for one more second before closing the front door. "I'm here."

The rest of team was gathered in the dining room. Deputy White came out of a side hallway, the rush of water from a toilet filtered in the background. He tipped his hat to us. "I'll be outside. Give you folks some privacy."

Zachery spoke when the front door latched shut. "I contacted the supervisor in charge over at the crime tip line. They pulled their records, and searched for anything that matched Royster's voice using the tip about the cows as the sample reel."

"Surprised they have that technology," Jack said.

"The center was donated to the county by a rich man. Nothing but the best they say. Anyway, just got the call a few minutes ago and nothing came back."

Jack turned to Paige. "Any further progress on the computer files?"

"I've made copies of the files to forward to Nadia to see if there are any more encrypted files."

"She's got a lot on her plate. Slingshot, maybe you can study them too?"

"Sure." I dragged out the word a little too long. Jack noticed.

"You can or you can't?"

Normally a field job was just that—away from computers. It felt like a demotion. I turned to Jack. "Can."

"All right then."

"I'll make another copy," Paige said.

"Anything else you have to tell me?"

Paige and Zachery shared a look, shook their heads.

"All right then. We saw Quinton Davis. His background file seemed to match up with the man himself. He lives under the radar, keeps to himself, reads a lot. Really wouldn't peg him as Royster's killing partner."

"It's quite common for couples to kill together. Typically, when you're talking romantic involvement as well, the couple consists of one man, one woman. But the dynamics are based on one dominant, one submissive," Zachery said.

"Obviously, the male being submissive." Paige arched her brows to accompany her sarcasm.

"Yeah, that's it." A small smile showed on Zachery's lips.

I cut the joviality short. "We believe that Quinton was the submissive one in their romantic relationship, making Royster the dominant."

"That right there tells us the unsub we're looking for isn't Quinton," Zachery filled in the obvious. "We already know Royster had a submissive personality when it came to his involvement with Bingham."

"Very good." Jack's sardonic statement was accompanied by an upward turn of his mouth for only an instant. "Because we know all of this started with Royster's need for answers, he became vulnerable, a follower. That means whoever was with him during the torture and murder was stronger than he was."

"But that's not all," I started. "Royster abused Quinton."

"Abused him. How?" Paige asked.

"Cut him, just like the victims." My statement sank in the air as if it were a tangible element susceptible to gravity.

"Quinton was his practice?"

I held out my phone to show them the picture Quinton had allowed us to take of his torso.

"Oh my god." Paige's eyes dragged from the small image to align with my eyes.

"And if you think that's bad wait until you hear what Royster would say afterwards." I waited until they were all watching me. "Shh, baby, don't cry."

"Creepy." Paige shivered.

"Yeah and he'd say it while caressing Quinton's forehead with the back of his hand."

"Royster was one sick shit." The statement came from Zachery.

"Seems that way. Do you think maybe we're looking at this the wrong way—" My cell rang, and Jack looked at it. Even he recognized the ringtone as belonging to Debbie. I hit ignore. "We assume that Royster was the weaker of the two followers, but what if the other person was weaker?"

"No." The one-worded response came from Jack.

"No?" Sometimes I wondered if he chose to disagree with me simply for being able to do so.

"No. Royster was the follower to whoever else was in that picture." Jack took out a cigarette and lit up. A puff of white smoke accompanied his next words. "Quinton said Royster complained about the knife not being the right one."

"That shows Royster was trying to imitate what he saw," Zachery finished Jack's thought.

Jack nodded as he took another drag.

Somehow watching him do this made everything fill in for me. "We know Royster had a submissive personality. Therefore, we know the other person in that picture wasn't put in place by him. He was recruited directly by Bingham. With Bingham in prison, this follower took over in every way including leading Royster."

"Quite likely. The man was relatively weak."

"He kept his relationship with Quinton secret for years." For some reason, I came to Royster's defense.

"Weakness. He shouldn't have been ashamed of what they had."

"It was weak for him to hold back because he didn't want unnecessary public backlash including the potential loss of his job?"

"You think he'd be fired over what he had goin' on with that man?" The sheriff came into the dining room.

All of us turned to him. I asked the obvious. "You knew about it?"

"Course I did. Most of us did. Small place, or haven't y'all picked up on that yet? The only ones who thought it was a secret were Earl and Quinton."

"And nobody cared?"

"Nobody but Earl's brother."

"Robert knew about it."

"Listen, Kid, if you're gonna parrot everything I say, it'll be a long night."

I noticed Zachery's smile at my expense.

"What did Rob think of his brother being homosexual?" Paige asked.

The sheriff put one hand on his holster, the other to his hip. "He didn't like it. Said it was wrong. Said the Bible said it was wrong."

Maybe that's why Royster had been easily manipulated by Bingham? Bingham was an advocate of scripture, a preacher of confess, repent and be forgiven. If that man accepted him for who he was, who was his brother to condemn him? That could have turned his mission of finding justice for his brother to one relating with Bingham's mission. But we still didn't know for certain Robert was a victim of Bingham, and if he was what the motive would have been for killing him. "How did Earl handle that?"

"Robert was still his brother. That's why he took it so hard when he went missing."

The sound of a ticking clock made its way from the direction of the kitchen.

"Well, people time to go." Jack sucked in on the cigarette and headed to the front door. The pile of ash built up on the end no doubt proving as a motivator to get outside.

"Night, Sheriff," Paige said.

"Oh, I doubt that. We'll be watching the place, making sure there are no looters." He pointed at the broken front window. "In the morning, we'll get it boarded up."

*****

THE RIDE BACK TO THE hotel seemed never-ending for only being about a twenty-minute drive from Royster's. But my head pounded. I blamed it on the stench of second-hand smoke that had saturated my clothes and no doubt seeped into my flesh. I could barely wait for a hot shower to melt it away.

Zachery had called shotgun like a child, yet he was the genius, leaving me in the backseat with Paige. At least relief from the smell of cigarette came in subtle waves of her perfume.

Zachery dropped his head back on the headrest. "We're definitely looking for someone close to Bingham. Someone loyal."

Maybe if I focused on the case, the headache would subside. "He doesn't have any living relatives. He never had children, so it's safe to rule out those."

"The farmers he worked for valued him, said he was hard working, but I don't think it went beyond that," Paige offered.

"He attended the Lakeview Community Church but wasn't a member. No one's mentioned him being close to anyone else we haven't already spoken to." My cell phone rang. It was Debbie again. I glanced at the clock on the front dash. Just after eleven. As far as I was concerned this was my time. I answered.

"I've been trying to reach you."

"I know."

"You've been ignoring my calls."

I shifted my position to face the door. I held my cell in my left hand and sheltered my face hoping it would dilute my voice. "I'm working." I heard Paige say something about visiting more members of the church.

"All day and night?"

"It's part of the job."

"It's late. You're still working?"

"I've got to go."

"Brandon."

"Yes."

"Take care out there."

I hung up without saying another word to her. And the awkwardness of doing so transferred to Paige, who paused in the middle of speaking.

"You were talking about visiting more members of the church to see if anyone else was close with Bingham," I prompted her to continue.

"Yes." She studied my eyes, and somehow managed to penetrate them in the glow of the dashboard lights that filtered to the back seat. "Maybe some of them would know more about who he was close to if he mentioned anyone specifically."

"Good idea." Jack pulled into the parking lot of Betty's Place for Paige and Zachery to pick up their SUV.

And somehow, it took until now for me to realize my other reason for a headache—lack of food. Just seeing the lights off in the restaurant made my stomach growl.

"You and Zachery visit those on the congregation list tomorrow. Slingshot and I will pay our new friend another visit."

Paige and Zachery got out of the vehicle and I couldn't help but think why did I always have to talk with Bingham?

*****

ALL I HAD WANTED TO do was peel myself out of my clothes and take a hot shower, but the lights of the hotel lobby summoned me in the search for a vending machine.

The night clerk sat behind the front counter, feet up on the desk, watching Criminal Minds. He didn't look much older than twenty. The door chimed notifying him he had a customer; he nodded absent-mindedly.

"Just looking for something to eat."

"Over there." He pointed to a vending machine.

I studied my options which weren't plentiful. A few types of chocolate bars, small bags of peanuts and packages of microwave popcorn, which had me wondering how that would sell seeing as the rooms didn't have microwaves. Along with that was a couple varieties of chips—plain and nacho. Any other time, if I wasn't so hungry, I'd take a pass on all of it. I reached into my pocket for some change, selected the peanuts and a Snickers bar.

"You're one of the FBI Agents, ain't ya?"

"Yes, I am."

"I have mail for one of ya." The guy walked to the counter. "Brandon Fisher."

"That's me."

He extended a card-sized envelope, the same as the one sent to Bingham at the prison—the envelope that had contained my picture. I put the food on the counter and turned the envelope over. No return address. I looked at the front. No postmark. "Someone dropped this off?"

The guy shrugged, glanced back at his program.

"Do you know when?"

He shook his head.

"Do you have cameras in here?"

He gestured behind me toward a large one mounted in the corner of the room.

"I'll need to see the footage."

"You'll have to speak to the manager in the morning."

"Right now. Call them. Wake them up. Now."

The guy held up both hands in surrender. "K."

His statement returned my eyes to the envelope I held in my hand. Even though I held it, and its contents were unknown, I knew whatever was inside wasn't going to be good. Call it a hunch. "Call them. Now."

He picked up the phone, pecked the buttons with his bony fingers. "He's not going to be—" He stopped talking to me and spoke into the phone. "It's Kyle..."

I heard him speaking, but his words blurred. Everything from the last three days merged. Eleven rooms, ten bodies, one empty grave. Confess your sins, and be forgiven. Don't, and be punished. The Redeemer was a new follower on Twitter, but he had reached out from cyberspace and became my stalker in the real world.

I worked a thumb under the seal of the envelope and tore open its length.

The hotel employee hung up. "He said it doesn't work."

"Great! Just great!" I grabbed the peanuts and bar from the counter, walked a few steps and spun around. "Who was working today?"

"Ellen, I think."

"When's her next shift?"

"She'll be in at six."

He spoke to my back and the chimes of the door. My heart beat rapidly. I stopped in front of the lobby, tucked the food under one arm and slipped the contents out of the envelope. Two pictures. When I realized of what, the food fell to the concrete.

*****

LIKE KINDERGARTEN CHILDREN, they were to be all tucked in and accounted for by eight. Lights went out at eleven. Bingham despised life behind bars. He lay on the top bunk, but he didn't sleep.

His cellmate snored beneath him loud and deep enough to send vibrations through the metal frame. The inconsistent rhythm jackhammered into Bingham's head, interrupting his thoughts at the peak of enlightenment.

Three years in this hell hole to date, two with this hog beneath him. Every night it was the same noise. The man seemed to fall asleep at the directing snap of fingers.

Bingham had never been that obedient. He didn't see the merit in following the leading of another man. After all, who were they to guide him when they were imperfect sinners without recompense?

He had found a way to repentance through reconciling for others' sins. His cellmate let out another loud snore. The man should fear sucking in his entire face with the depth of his inhalations.

Bingham took his arms out from under the cotton blanket that covered him. The fabric had gotten coarse from too many washing cycles.

He lifted his arms, intertwined his fingers and cracked all his knuckles at once. As each of them shifted into tighter alignment, he thought of those he had saved and those who were loyal to him despite adversity. He smiled.

*****

I RAN THROUGH THE HOTEL parking lot. And as if I were in a nightmare the more I willed my legs to move the heavier they became. I reached Jack's door and slammed the side of a balled fist repeatedly against it.

I heard him swear, but I didn't think I woke him up. As I continued to knock, more voices came from inside and I assumed he was watching TV. He opened the door three-quarters of the way. No glow came from the TV.

He stepped around the door wearing a white T-shirt and gray boxers. He held his Glock 22 ready to fire if he didn't like his late-night visitor. "What the hell are you doing at my door?" The gun didn't move.

I extended the photos along with the envelope. "This was dropped off today."

He looked from my eyes to what I held out to him and lowered his gun.

"This is a picture of my house back in Woodbridge. And that—," I rearranged the photos to place the other one on top, "—is my wife. I tried calling her, but she's not answering." I brushed past him into the room. "I need to get back there now."

"Did they see who dropped this off?" Jack took the photos, held them at an angle, and looked at me. Something in his eyes told me he didn't really want me in his room, and if it was anything but the current circumstance I'd be out on my rump.

"The security camera's a dud. The lady who was on shift starts at six." I couldn't obtain a satisfying breath. All I could think about was Debbie being kidnaped, tortured and murdered. I thought of the circular graves, the empty one, the void begging for the unsub to fill it. I knew it was nonsense as there was no way they would ever gain access to Bingham's property, but I also realized it could be repeated elsewhere. After all we knew files were being sent to us regarding similar murders in Sarasota.

Jack dropped onto the end of the mattress. I noticed then how the sheets were unkempt, pulled back and bunched up at the end of the bed. I remembered the voices I had heard earlier. Now inside the room, the TV wasn't on. Maybe he shut it off before answering the door. I don't know why, maybe it was the jittery way Jack was acting, the more accommodating manner, but I believed someone else was in this room.

But it wasn't any of my business. I pulled out my cell phone and dialed home again. As the hollow rings repeated, they droned in my brain. I might never speak to her again. All I imagined was her captured and begging for life.

"Kid, we'll head out first thing in the morning—"

"In the morning? She could be dead by then."

"We'll call the Prince William County PD, have them drive by the house, and check things out. We have to keep a level head."

Prince William County PD covered Woodbridge.

"Easy for you to say."

"Yeah I'm the boss. It's my job. Besides running into Woodbridge, all hotheaded on a mission isn't going to accomplish anything. You should know that."

"You're talking about how I came at the CSIs?"

Jack shrugged his shoulders. I realized another thing about Jack Harper; he never let anything go. He held onto it, good or bad, and used it as a grading chart against all future actions. Like my earlier mention of the Academy, and how it didn't teach me an aspect about DNA, and suddenly I was a finger-pointer of blame.

"I'm going."

"Okay, how do you know this isn't another game, huh? Maybe Royster dropped this off before or after the photo to the prison. Besides the man's dead."

My jaw tightened, and a hand went over the gun I still carried in my holster. "We don't know he dropped those off. And you're telling me Royster flew to Woodbridge, snapped the photos and came back here, all for a joke. Maybe the other unsub who we haven't caught yet did this. Maybe he has Deb."

Jack leaned across the bed to the nightstand and opened the drawer. He pulled out his cell phone, a pack of cigarettes, and a lighter. "Listen, Kid, how do you know she didn't take off to a girlfriend's, go visit her mother?" He straightened back to a seated position, flipped open the cigarette pack, and lit one up. The rooms were non-smoking, not that anything seemed to matter to the man except for his nicotine addiction. "Isn't that possible?"

I gave the question a few seconds' consideration. "Still, her cell phone? Shouldn't she at least be answering that?"

"It's late. She probably turned it off."

"Then it would ring straight to voice mail. It doesn't." I paced the room. As I headed toward the bathroom door, Jack sprung from the bed and redirected me.

"Call her mother, call her best lady friends and I'm sure you'll find her."

"And if I don't? They'll all be panicked for no reason. Until I know for sure—"

Jack put a hand on my shoulder and removed it almost as fast as it had made contact. "We'll find her." He pressed some keys on his phone. "We've all been on the go since early. It wouldn't be safe to be on the roads, and that's not even mentioning the pain of arranging the flight back to Washington from Louisville."

Woodbridge, Virginia was about thirty minutes out from Washington.

"You're being careless."

Jack hung up the phone and glared at me. "When you've seen all I have then we can talk. I know when to react, I know when to get wound up, but I also know how to control it." He jabbed the phone toward me. "That's the part you have to learn. Look at the evidence. We have pictures of your house and wife. Could Royster have gotten these offline like he did your Twitter pic?"

I pulled the photos from the bed where he had left them. I studied the photograph of my house trying to be objective. I convinced myself to breathe in deep, allowing myself to believe Jack's other scenarios. Debbie was over at her mother's or at a friend's. Wherever she was, she was safe.

My eyes went to the garden bed at the front of the house. It was just as I remembered before leaving. But the hanging flower basket on the veranda, I didn't remember that. The porch stairs were missing paint. A week, maybe two ago the way time moves, Debbie and I had applied a fresh coat. We had a couple beers afterward and ordered in pizza while watching mindless television programs.

I looked back to the basket. I remembered it now. It had dried out from the sun and Debbie threw it out. I razzed her about her inability to keep plants alive. She blamed Mother Nature.

"This photo is at least two to three weeks old."

"Okay, then. What does that tell you?"

"I don't know. What do you want me to say?"

"Think clearly. The photo of you was pulled from the Internet. The whole point was to play with you—"

"Was it?"

"Oh Lord, here we go." Jack looked heavenward which I found hypocritical for a nonreligious person.

I took a few steps but circled back to where I had started. "What if Royster mailed the photo to the prison as a confession of his sins? He knew that we'd be watching Bingham. And he knew if we didn't find out about the picture sent there, we'd find these ones."

"You just said a minute ago that we don't even know if it was Royster who dropped these ones off." Jack pointed to the photos in my hand.

"No, now I'd put money on it. Paige said the other CSI, Charlie, commented on how Royster said he was curious about how fast the FBI work. Royster said he didn't mean for anyone to get hurt. I believe he was willing to die for what he had done."

"It doesn't explain why he shot at us."

"He missed us with every, single bullet. Like you said, if he wanted to hit us, he would have."

"Okay, let's say you're right—"

"I am right."

Jack's eyes shifted, moving over me, but he didn't say anything.

"So now I have to figure out why these photos. Why did Royster drop these off?"

"Same thing Kid, if you're right. If we failed to track him by the photo dropped off at the prison, this would ensure we'd come after him."

"So he wanted to get caught. Suicide by cop." Jack shrugged. "A man is dead."

"A man who took part in the brutal murder of at least one person."

Our eyes deadlocked, and with it reality latched on. "Jack, even if Royster dropped off the photos, it doesn't explain why I can't reach Deb."

"Take a close look at the pictures." Jack gestured toward them, calm and composed.

He was right. I couldn't help Debbie by being hysterical. "Well, the picture of my house is an older one." I thought of the Internet. "I got it. He took the photo of my house from Google Earth. That would explain why it's not a current photo. They only update every so often."

"And the picture of your wife?" Jack walked past me to the door and flicked his cigarette onto the pavement outside.

The photo was a bust only. Debbie wore a collared white shirt. Her smile wasn't sincere but likely in response to the photographer's prompt.

"He got this off the Internet somewhere too. Just a sec, I'll be right back." I hurried to my room where the laptop was on my bed.

When I came back out into the relative darkness of the lot, I noticed a figure slip out of Jack's room. Based on the size of the frame it was Paige.

Was she the one in Jack's room? The jealousy ignited the blood in my veins, but I reined in my focus.

Jack's hotel door was still open. I let myself in, put the laptop on the long dresser with the twenty-inch tube TV and logged on. "Debbie works for a law firm. She's a clerk there, but I remember her saying something about how they were taking staff photos." I went to their website and pulled up the employee page. I pointed a finger at the screen. "Yep, that's where the son of a bitch got it." I let out a deep breath and as I did my eyes scanned to the bathroom door. It was no longer closed. My heart cinched. Paige was sleeping with Jack.

"There you go. The pictures were taken from the Internet and not in person." Jack pulled out his cell phone, dialed a number, and held it to an ear.

I knew he was right, the words, and the conclusion logical. Yet, without hearing Debbie's voice, it still left way for doubt. "I just wish I could reach her." I pulled out my cell again.

"Everything will be fine."

"Didn't think you believed in making promises."

"I don't believe in—" Jack held up a finger and spoke into his cell. "Chief Fayette...yes, I'd know you'd rather I call you by...yes, Bob."

Jack carried on banter with the man for a while. It must have been the chief's direct line. Maybe they were golfing buddies not that I saw Jack having enough patience to be successful at the sport.

I listened closely as the tone of the call changed. Jack expressed his concern over an agent's wife being in danger. They spoke for a few minutes about family and something about we'll have to do that again before Jack tossed his cell on the dresser near the laptop.

"She's a pretty woman." Jack bobbed his head toward the screen.

"I think so." I wasn't about to get into an in-depth conversation about it. It was bad enough the man was sleeping with my former lover. "You and the chief are close."

Jack stepped toward me. "It's late, let's get some sleep. A couple cruisers are going to your house to check things out."

"And—"

"Once they do they'll call you," Jack answered my question hearing only one word. He closed the lid of the laptop and handed it to me. "Night."

Enjoying this Brandon Fisher novel? There are 5 other published titles in this series.

For more information on available titles in the Brandon Fisher FBI series visit http://carolynarnold.net/brandon-fisher-fbi-series/