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A new kind of panic raced up Bent’s spine. The guy killed his own mother. Fuck. “We have to find them.”

He and Jones stared at those damned maps again. The voices and activity around them seemed to fade to a hum. Somewhere out there—Bent scanned the lines and symbols on the pages—Vee and Eve were fighting for their lives. Dread swelled wider and deeper inside him. To stand here orchestrating the ongoing activities wasn’t enough. He had to get out there. He had to do something.

“Tell me,” he said to Jones, “where did he take his victims? Where did he leave them?”

“Back when he was active,” Jones began, “he—they—always left the victim at a location that had meaning to her life. Almost as if theywanted those left behind or the police investigating the case to understand that no place was safe from his reach. The profiler on the case insisted it was a continuation of theme—sending messages. They sent messages to each victim warning that she was next or that they were coming. Always, without deviation. The thought was that the drop location was a message as well.”

Bent’s instincts rose a degree higher. “Give me an example of what you mean.”

“For example,” Jones said, “Judy Finch, the first victim we know of, was left at an old, abandoned playground. Later, after some digging, we learned that this was the place where her father had a heart attack and died when she was a kid. He was there with her and her brother. She never went back to that park, her mother said. Not ever. Until her body was found there.”

“So part of the time he takes watching each victim is to learn all he can about that person,” Bent suggested. “Who they are during captivity is not enough. He—they—want to know the victim’s history. It makes the interaction more personal, more intimate.”

“Right,” Eric confirmed. “Shelia Upton—she was victim number six. Her body was found in a long-closed bookstore. That bookstore had been her favorite place when she was growing up. She went there all the time, her parents said, until it closed. She grieved it like a lost friend.”

Bent scanned the map again. There were places that had special meaning to the Boyett sisters. “Rose Hill Cemetery,” he said. “Their parents are buried there. Vera and Eve used to meet there all the time. Probably still do.”

“He might leave them there, but unless there’s a place where he can have privacy,” Jones explained, “we aren’t likely to find them there while he’s doing the torture thing.”

“The house where they grew up,” Bent mentioned. “That’s where their mother and their stepmother died ...” He hesitated. “No ... the cave.” He looked to Jones. “Vee and I checked the cave just yesterday.I have someone watching her place. You can’t get to that cave without going past the house.”

“Call your deputy,” Jones argued. “He’s slick. He could have slipped under even the most skilled deputy’s radar. Vera and Eve could be there right now.”

Bent attempted to contact the deputy watching the Boyett place.

No answer. Fear spiraled through him.

Jesus Christ. That was it. He looked to Jones. “I think you might be right.”

“Let’s go.”

Bent was already halfway to the door.

39

The sound of sobbing penetrated the haze cradling Vera’s brain. She told her eyes to open ... drew in a breath as if it were the first in hours. Her heart started to beat faster. Damp. The air smelled wet ... moldy.

Where was she?

Open!

Her eyes refused.

Her mouth felt dry ... lips. Needed to lick her lips.

More sobbing ...

Was she crying?

Her eyelids fluttered open.

A spot of light high above her head held her attention. Craggy ... rocky. What was she looking at?

A cry of anguish pierced the air.

Vera tensed.

Eve.