Page 65

CHAPTER

SIXTY-FOUR

The basement door creaked open the rest of the way, and footsteps descended the wooden stairs. But this time, when the figure reached the bottom, he pulled off the Picasso mask.

Logan sucked in a breath.

Tom Zimmerman.

The nervous, terrified pharmacist who’d been blackmailed into providing sedatives. The man they’d been trying to protect. The man they’d thought had been burned beyond recognition.

He was actually the killer.

“You,” Logan breathed.

Zimmerman smiled—not the anxious, frightened expression Logan remembered. This smile was cold and satisfied. “Hello again, Trooper Gibson. I do hope you’ve been comfortable.”

“The blackmail story.” In an instant, all the facts clicked in place in his mind with sickening clarity. “It was all an act.”

“Quite convincing, wasn’t it? I’ve had years to perfect the role of the nervous, guilt-ridden pharmacist.” Zimmerman smirked. “Amazing how easily people believe what they want to believe.”

Logan looked at Morgan, saw her staring at Zimmerman with growing recognition dawning in her eyes.

“I know you,” she said slowly. “You’re older, different, but . . .”

“We went to art school together,” he finished.

She sucked in a breath. “That’s right. At the University of Alaska. You were in my advanced photography class.”

Zimmerman’s smile widened. “Very good, Morgan. Though I’m disappointed it took you this long to remember. We spent an entire semester together.”

“You were kicked out,” Morgan continued, squinting as memories seemed to flood back to her. “For copying other people’s work and claiming the ideas as your own.”

“Expelled for ‘plagiarism and artistic theft.’” Zimmerman scowled. “Such harsh words for what was simply . . . inspiration. Homage. The professors couldn’t understand that I was improving upon existing work, making it more meaningful.”

“You were stealing.” Morgan’s words held no apology.

“I was completing visions that others had left unfinished.” Zimmerman’s tone remained calm, but Logan could see the dangerous gleam in his eyes. “Just like I’m doing now with your portfolio.”

Logan tested his restraints again, looking for any weakness. “So this whole thing—the murders, the staging—it’s all revenge because you got kicked out of art school?”

“Revenge?” Zimmerman laughed. “Oh, Trooper Gibson, you understand so little. This isn’t about revenge. This is about redemption. About proving that my vision was right all along.”

He moved closer to Morgan, studying her face with the intensity of an artist examining his subject.

“My wife was the only one who believed in me after the expulsion,” he continued. “Elise understood that true art transcends conventional boundaries. She supported me when I decided to become a pharmacist—such a boring profession. I had to put my artistic dreams aside.”

“Elise,” Morgan repeated. “The woman you mentioned before.”

“I took care of her while she died of cancer. Watched her fade away, day by day, until she was barely a shadow of herself.” Zimmerman’s voice grew softer, almost reverent.

“But in those final moments, she told me that death could be a beautiful thing—a transformation from one state of being to another.”

Logan felt sick listening to the twisted logic.

“She was deeply spiritual,” Zimmerman continued. “And she was right. Death isn’t an ending—it’s the completion of a composition. The final brushstroke that makes everything else meaningful.”

“You’re insane,” Logan said.

“I’m an artist.” Zimmerman’s words took on a new, sharper edge. “And tonight, I complete my masterpiece.”

Morgan looked at him with a mixture of pity and horror. “You’re taking us to Smith Lake, aren’t you?”

Zimmerman’s smile returned, but he shook his head. “Too easy, my dear Morgan. Your colleagues have already figured out that location. They’ll have it surrounded by now, waiting for a killer who will never arrive.”

He gestured toward the ceiling, where they heard him moving equipment around earlier.

“I have somewhere much better in mind. Somewhere private, where we won’t be interrupted. Where I can take all the time I need to capture the perfect expression in Trooper Gibson’s eyes.” Zimmerman’s voice carried the satisfaction of someone who’d planned every detail.

“Where?” Logan demanded.

“Patience.” Zimmerman returned to his preparations. “All will be revealed when we arrive.”

Logan exchanged a glance with Morgan. Whatever location Zimmerman had chosen, it would be somewhere he felt completely in control. Somewhere he could stage his final, twisted composition without any possibility of rescue.

As Zimmerman withdrew a syringe, Logan’s breath caught. No . . .

He struggled to get away.

But before he could, the needle plunged into his neck.

Then everything went black.

Andi’s hands shook as she stepped into Morgan’s cabin.

Duke, Ranger, and Yazzie flanked her, weapons drawn, though they all knew the house would be empty. The killer had moved beyond games of hide-and-seek.

“What exactly are we looking for?” Duke asked as they moved through the living room.

“Something we missed.” Andi’s eyes swept the space, taking in Morgan’s carefully curated life—photography books, camera equipment, framed prints on the walls.

The filing cabinet in the corner caught her attention.

She pulled open one of the drawers.

Row after row of labeled film canisters, organized by date and location.

She began sorting through them.

“Here.” Andi found the date corresponding to Morgan’s recent series. “These are the photographs we know about—the ones the killer’s been re-creating.”

Duke looked over her shoulder as she pulled out several canisters full of negatives. “What are you thinking?”

“That maybe there are photographs he’s seen that we haven’t. Images that didn’t make it into the final series but show locations this guy might use.” Andi’s fingers moved through the labels, looking for gaps or inconsistencies.

She finally found a canister labeled “Duality of Seasons—Unpublished” with a date that fell right in the middle of Morgan’s series timeline.

“This shouldn’t be here.” Andi held up the negatives. “The dates on the cannister show this was shot between two of the published photographs, but it never appeared in any gallery show.”

Ranger moved closer. “Can you tell what it is?”

“This is an enlarger,” Andi muttered, turning toward another machine. “I think I remember how to use this from my yearbook days in high school.”

“You weren’t digital back then?”

She opened the tray to put the negative on it. “My yearbook advisor was a purist and insisted we couldn’t go digital. Anyway, let’s see what I remember.”

She adjusted the film and sucked in a long breath. “Turn off the lights.”

Ranger did so.

She turned the machine on, and an image was projected on the wall.

It was of an ice cave with two ice columns on either side. However, one side of the structure was beginning to crumble—all because of humans who’d disrespected the space. Camping gear was left, as well as some litter.

“It’s beautiful,” Duke said quietly. “Why wouldn’t she publish this?”

Andi studied the composition more carefully. “I have a feeling there’s something personal about this image.”

The positioning of the ice columns—they told a story of loss and hope, of endings and beginnings.

“Because these photos weren’t just about the landscape. Look at the symbolism. It represents strength and weakness.” Andi felt pieces clicking into place. “This guy isn’t just recreating her photography. He’s completing her story. This is it. This is where he’s taking them.”

“But where is it?” Duke asked.

“I know the spot,” Ranger said. “I’ve been there before to do some training.”

“How long to get there?” Andi asked.

“Twenty minutes,” Ranger said. “Maybe fifteen if we push it.”

Andi looked at the photograph again.

Somewhere out there, in that same ice cave, Logan was about to become the trash in Zimmerman’s twisted recreation.

“We’ve got to move.” Andi headed toward the door. “And pray we’re not too late.”

As they rushed from Morgan’s house, Andi couldn’t shake the feeling that they were walking into the killer’s final trap.

He’d anticipated their every move so far. What made her think this time would be different?

But looking at that photograph, she knew they had to try. Logan’s life—and Morgan’s—depended on them reaching that ice cave before Zimmerman could complete his masterpiece.

They had minutes, not hours, to stop this killer.