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Faith leaned back and rubbed her eyes. The past five hours had been fruitless. They had found no new leads and discovered nothing new about their victim that could help them determine which direction to take.

Michael slid her cup of coffee toward her, her fourth of the evening. “Don’t get frustrated,” he advised. “It’s only the end of our first day.”

“Do I really need to tell you why the night makes me nervous on a murder case?”

“No,” he said, “but we don’t know that this is a serial killer we’re chasing. It could just be someone who had a personal vendetta against Paul.”

“Who, though? We’ve talked to everyone close to him, and they all tell us one of two stories: either he was happy all the time and a joy to everyone, or he was depressed and haunted by his time in the war. He didn’t have enemies, just people who admired him and people who pitied him.”

The two agents had spent the first two hours of their stay at the Hancock Village Inn calling Paul’s closest associates.

According to Penny and Stan, those were his boss, the receptionist at their business, the proprietor of the Riverbank Bar, and another veteran named Kyle Gaston who lived in Cadosia just north of Hancock Village.

They hadn’t visited any of the named individuals and hadn’t needed to.

Kyle was at the Riverbank Bar, and security footage placed him and the bartender there until two in the morning, well past the time their killer would have needed to start his mission.

The boss and receptionist were both petite women, not strong enough to carry Paul’s body or dig a grave.

“Could be someone from his past,” Michael suggested. “Someone he fought with.”

“That could be hundreds of people.” She sighed.

“I guess do some checking into his military background. Maybe something will jump out at us here. I just really thought we’d get a bead on something after talking to his wife and his best friend.

You’d think they would know if he was facing some danger. ”

“There’s an old proverb that says a man has three faces,” Michael remarked. “One he shows the world, one he shows his family, and one he shows himself. We’ve seen two of his faces. Maybe the third face is the one that got him killed.” He frowned. “Does that make sense? I didn’t explain it well.”

“I think so. You’re trying to say that Penny and his coworkers knew him one way, and his veteran buddies and the bartender knew him another way. Maybe the killer knew him a third way, and he just hid that part of himself well.”

"Exactly. The question is, how do we reveal that third face?"

“If it’s there to be revealed,” Faith replied. She sighed and rubbed her eyes. “Damn it.”

“What? What’s wrong?”

“I’m gonna pass out. I can’t stay awake. The coffee’s not helping.”

“That’s all right. Go ahead and get some rest. I’ll keep working while you sleep.”

She glared at him. “Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

“I’ve worked with you for twelve years,” he said placidly. “Going on thirteen. There is no way to make you feel better. You’re going to feel however you’re going to feel. Just know that I feel it’s okay if you need to rest. Besides, Turk’s sleeping.”

Faith looked in between the hotel room’s two beds. As usual, Turk had fallen asleep almost immediately after dinner and remained where he had lain down, his head resting on his paws and one ear up to listen for danger.

Couldn’t hear the danger that almost killed you though, poor boy, Faith thought. Sneaky bitch came in when we were both out of the house.

“Faith? You okay?”

Faith stirred and turned to Michael. “Fine. Yeah, you’re right. I’m just tired. I’ll head to bed. If you find anything, wake me up, okay?”

“You got it. And I promise I won’t bust out the permanent marker while you’re sleeping.”

“If you value certain beloved parts of your body, you’ll definitely keep the marker away from me.”

He lifted his hands. “Yep. Got it.”

She headed to the bathroom to change into a t-shirt and sweatpants.

She and Michael had dated briefly years ago, and while David didn’t have a problem with the two of them sharing a room and spending so much time together for their work, Michael’s wife, Ellie, only barely tolerated it.

She was pretty sure she could strip naked and dance on a pole without tempting Michael these days, but she might as well err on the side of too appropriate.

God, why was she thinking about that? She really did need to rest.

She tried to ignore the twin pangs of guilt and envy she felt when she came out of the bathroom to see Michael alert and leaning over his laptop continuing to work on their case. For God’s sake, he was six years older than her. Why was he the more energetic one?

As soon as she lay on her bed, her irritation faded. Everything faded but her need to close her eyes and rest. She was awake for the deep inhale of her first breath and asleep by the time it left her.

***

She opened her eyes to a familiar scene. She was tied to a chair in an abandoned barn. The only light came through a crack near the upper left corner of the barn behind her. The shaft of sunlight that pierced the crack fell over a surgical tray topped with several rusty cutting implements.

In a moment, the door ahead would open, searing her eyes with another blaze of light.

Jethro Trammell, the Donkey Killer, the seven-foot brute who had killed Special Agent Jack Preston and nearly killed his K9 unit, Turk, would walk inside, taunt her for a few minutes, then pick up a rusty knife.

He would lean close, whisper in her ear, “Let’s see you bleed, little girl,” then cut her until she woke up.

In real life, he’d cut her until Michael burst through the door. She was unconscious from blood loss and shock by then. Jethro would turn around, shocked at having been found, and Michael would put a bullet in his head. This being a dream, he probably wouldn’t make it past the first cut.

Faith rolled her eyes. Of course, she was having this nightmare again. Months free of any nightmares, and now she got to see Jethro Trammell every night once more. Goddamn that bitch Messenger.

She blinked, and when she opened her eyes again, she wasn't in the chair anymore.

Not that chair, anyway. She was on the futon where she had sat and on rare occasions lain while Dr. Franklin West conducted their sessions.

She was still bound at the wrists and ankles this time.

Was West going to come in and cut her the way he did his victims in intentional imitation of his idol, Trammell?

Was he going to use his fists to beat her like he'd done twice?

Or was he going to stop screwing around and just shoot her already?

He didn’t show up, though. Instead, she blinked again and found herself on her back. She wasn’t bound, but she still couldn’t move. She was stuck as surely as if Trammell had severed the tendons of her knees, heels, and elbows like he had when he caught her.

Trammell still wasn’t here. Neither was West. But she was. That bitch. The one who had poisoned Turk.

The Messenger.

The Messenger beamed down at Faith, her eyes bright and sick, her teeth bared like the fangs of a hyena. She straddled Faith’s hips in a sickeningly sexual pose, her thighs pressed to Faith’s sides like a lover. She giggled, perhaps guessing the reason for Faith’s discomfort.

She leaned forward until her lips were inches from Faith’s. Faith couldn’t even turn her head to avoid the faint puff of her breath against her nostrils.

“Hey there, slut,” the Messenger teased. “Looks like I got you right where I want you.”

Faith thought of Turk, and fear lanced through her spine. The Messenger giggled again. "Oh, don't worry about your dog. I already took care of him. Look."

Faith didn’t want to look, but she wasn’t in control of her body anymore. Her head turned, and when she saw the stiff, maggot-ridden corpse of her dog, she shrieked.

The Messenger laughed again, this one loud and throaty, a cry of triumph. She leaned down to Faith, grabbed her jaw and forced her head back toward her own. She pressed her lips to Faith and kissed her lasciviously, sliding her tongue over her lips and causing nausea to join grief and fear.

***

“Faith! Faith!”

Faith woke with a gasp. That gasp allowed Turk’s tongue to slide in between her lips instead of over her face. She spluttered and shook her head, falling out of the bed and stumbling to her feet and to the bathroom.

She turned the water to the coldest setting and splashed water over her face until she was shivering.

Turk whined next to her, and she shut the water off and managed a smile at him.

He had his tail tucked in between his legs and a mournfully apologetic look in his eyes.

She chuckled softly and ruffled his fur.

“Sorry, boy. I’m all right. Maybe don’t lick my face to wake me up anymore, okay? ”

“You sure you’re all right?” Michael asked. “That sounded like a bad one.”

He sat at the same chair he’d been sitting in when she went to sleep, his eyes red-rimmed but not too puffy considering he’d spent most of the night awake.

Sunlight filtered through their room’s curtain and fell over Faith when she stepped out of the bathroom.

She frowned. Apparently, he had spent all of the night awake.

“What time is it?”

“Six-thirty.”

She sighed. “Damn it.”

“Why damn it? You normally get up at six-thirty.”

She sighed. “Yeah, I know. I just… Whatever. Did you find something?”

Michael grinned. “Actually, I did.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Oh yeah?”

“Yep.”

He waved her over to look at his laptop. She followed him and leaned over his shoulder. “James Furlong,” she read. “He knew Paul?”

“I don’t know that for sure,” Michael said, “ but this guy was a veteran and an archaeologist.”

“At the same time?”

He rolled his eyes. “No. He’s a former Army Officer whose platoon was wiped out near Kabul in 2003.

He left the Army as soon as his contract was up and went back to school.

He got his doctorate in archaeology in 2015.

He lives right up the road in Corbett, and he’s a colleague of our dear Dr. Anna Winters. ”

“You don’t say?”

“I do say. Another fun fact: he was recently disciplined for remarks he made at a staff meeting suggesting that Dr. Winters earned leadership of her dig due to certain aspects of her female anatomy rather than her expertise or capability as an archaeologist.”

The wheels in Faith's head began to turn.

"So an unsuccessful Army Officer living near a well-liked successful Air Force NCO is jealous because his colleague gets the job he wanted.

He probably feels a little bit like a failure, too.

Maybe he remembers feeling like a failure after his unit died and he thinks about this asshole Paul Martinez. "

“And maybe the Paul Martinez he knows is the happy-go-lucky, generous one, the one that doesn’t seem at all bothered by the war,” Michael continued.

“He can’t kill Dr. Winters,” Faith said. “Too many people would wonder about him since he made that comment and clearly didn’t like her.”

“But he’s angry, and he’s tired of being reminded that he’s a failure while others succeed,” Michael continued again. “So he kills Paul and dumps his body right in Anna’s dig site so that all of the attention that was supposed to go to her findings now goes to the dead body her team also found.”

“That’s not extremely far-fetched,” Faith said.

“Is it a little far-fetched?” he asked.

“Maybe. Maybe not. Either way, there’s enough there to be worth paying Mr. Furlong a visit.”

“I very much agree.” His smile vanished, replaced by a look of concern. “Are you sure you’re all right, though? I haven’t heard you scream like that since… Well, actually…”

He cut himself off, but it was too late. Faith saw his eyes flick to Turk. She smiled to hide the tension in her jaw. “I’m fine. No big deal. Just a dream. Let’s talk to James Furlong and see just how angry he was.”

“All right,” Michael he said, “You got it.”

Faith couldn’t do anything about the latest serial killer to haunt her nightmares, but she could do something about Paul Martinez’s killer. That would be enough to banish the cobwebs of anxiety from her mind and help her focus fully on the Messenger when the time came.