Page 17

Faith called Michael and found that his own search had been fruitless so far.

“These guys are all baby Cuthberts,” he said.

“They want to talk my ear off about the Revolutionary War, and when I finally get through and get them to understand that a man died, they’re useless.

They…” he sighed. “We should have had them all drive back up here. I feel like I went to Yale for no reason.”

“Do you have anyone else to talk to?” Faith asked.

"Yeah, one more. Patricia Norbury. Betcha anything, she's British."

Faith smiled. “You must be bored if you’re thinking about that right now.”

“I’m not bored, I’m antsy. This guy’s escalating. The coins are new, and he buried him closer to the surface. He’s enjoying the thrill of these kills, and he’s going to strike again soon, especially since we’re floundering right now.”

Faith’s smile faded. “Yeah, you’re right. We have to get some answers quickly.”

“Here’s hoping Patricia can help us out.”

“Fingers crossed.”

“I’ll call you when I’m done with her. Not that you’re going to listen to me, but now would be an excellent time for you to take a nap so you can be fresh later when we spend all night tearing our hair out by the roots trying to find answers.”

Faith sighed. “Believe me, Michael, I wish I could, but my brain’s awake even if my body isn’t right now. I’m going to take Turk for a walk and see if inspiration strikes.”

“If it does, I will kiss your feet in front of Tabitha and proclaim you my hero.”

Faith laughed. “How about you promise to not do that if inspiration strikes?”

“Fine with me. Good luck, Faith.”

“You too.”

He hung up, and Faith got to her feet. Turk was asleep, but he had one ear raised as always, and as soon as the word “walk” escaped Faith’s lips, he was on his feet, alert and happy, tail wagging.

See? He’s not old. He’s still a puppy.

But there was the white on his muzzle and the grays popping up on his back. She looked hard at him and thought she detected a slight sway in his spine, but when he turned sideways, it was gone. It was probably just her imagination, but the white fur was definitely not imagined.

She sighed and hugged him tightly for a moment before putting the leash on. He endured the hug patiently, but as soon as she released him, he trotted to the end of the leash and whined.

“All right, all right,” she said. “We’ll walk.”

The two of them left the hotel and walked down Southern Boulevard for about two miles before reaching Tarrywile Mansion.

A placard at the entrance to the property announced that the three-story Shingle Style family home and its eleven-acre property now served as an event venue and the centerpiece of Tarrywile Park.

Faith followed the Tarrywile Property Loop to the Ponds Nature trail, a nine-mile trail that boasted views of Parks Pond and Tarrywile Lake, along with a beautiful selection of native plant life and the likelihood of encounters with numerous species of songbirds and insects.

Turk, of course, was overjoyed to be enjoying nature without the need to focus on the job.

Faith watched him investigate the park around him with a smile on her face.

He looked so happy. So peaceful. He deserved a chance to enjoy his final days.

Would it really be so bad if Faith stepped away from the field and let others look for the Messenger?

After all, someone would have to replace her someday.

It wasn't her against evil, it was the FBI against evil.

There would always be more serial killers, and there would always be more agents.

Faith was the best agent the Bureau had seen, but before her, Jack Preston was the best agent they'd seen, and before him, that title went to Grant Monroe.

Someone else would step into her shoes. Maybe Chavez.

She wasn't a rookie anymore, and she was showing flashes of talent that hinted at greatness in her future.

Faith kept her mind off of the case as they made their way into the park, and only when she was surrounded by the gentle buzz of bumblebees and the call of sparrows and wrens did she let her mind turn back to the murdered veterans.

That came as welcome relief from the question of hers and Turk’s retirement, a sign of just how much turmoil the thought of leaving caused her.

No, it wasn’t the thought of leaving. It was the thought of losing, of being beaten. She would never forgive herself for letting the Messenger defeat her and Turk. Michael was right. Try as she might, she wouldn’t be happy walking away knowing that the Messenger was still out there.

The case, Faith , she reminded herself.

She took a deep breath, and as she released it, she thought about their killer.

He knew his victims well. He knew their habits.

At the same time, he struck when they broke their habits, so he didn’t know their habits well enough to know when they would be vulnerable.

So maybe he didn’t know them well. Maybe he was just following them and striking when the opportunity presented itself.

But he had to know them. He had to know that they were happy on the surface but in pain underneath. The question was how did he know them? Whoever he was, he didn’t seem to be a part of either of their circles.

And how did the battlefields come into play? What did they mean? She would understand if the two men had a connection to the battlefield of some sort.

Maybe that was it. Maybe Paul Martinez was descended from the Delaware or Mohawk Indians who fought at the Delaware River. Maybe Kevin Barnes’ great-times-ten grandfather was a militiaman who fell at Candlewood.

“Maybe we can stop grabbing at straws and find an actual damned connection,” she muttered.

Turk looked back at her, and she waved her hand. “Nothing, boy. Go back to chasing squirrels. Well, don’t chase squirrels, please, but Mommy’s fine.”

Turk looked at her warily for a moment longer before turning back to the trail. Faith sighed and focused on the killer instead of the victims.

He respected his victims. That was evident in the reverence he showed when burying them.

It was also evident in the fact that he killed them quickly.

Faith’s first assumption when learning of the method of death was that the killer feared the victims due to their fighting experience and wanted to avoid combat, but she didn’t think so anymore.

He was strong enough to carry both men up hills and dig their graves.

In Barnes’ case, he’d carried him at least a mile up and down several hills.

Someone that powerful wouldn’t be afraid of fighting, especially if he was armed.

So he had to care about them too. He didn’t just show them the respect due to a worthy opponent. He showed them compassion by making sure they didn’t suffer.

He liked the attention too. He liked that Paul’s discovery had caused a sensation in the news.

He wanted that again. Faith didn’t think he chose the sites specifically because the bodies would be found easily, but the shallow graves certainly had something to do with that.

If he truly wanted his victims to rest, he’d bury them deeply and conceal the graves so they wouldn’t be disturbed, but he’d done the exact opposite of that.

He wanted people to know what he was doing and ask themselves why. He wanted them to wonder what his message was. He wanted people to talk about these killings.

In a way, it reminded her of West. West didn’t give a shit about his victims. He’d told Faith that he considered humans to be cattle.

But he wanted people to notice the Copycat Killer and by extension the Donkey Killer.

He wanted them to fear him as a devil. He was the proof that they weren’t really safe, that wolves lurked in daylight as well as darkness.

This killer’s motives were different from West, but his need to be seen was the same. He wanted people to know that he was out there killing these traumatized veterans and burying them in ancient battlefields.

She still didn’t know who he was, though. That was the problem. If he continued with his pattern, he’d leave more and more clues at each successive crime scene until the law finally caught on and arrested him, and he’d have a chance to talk at length about his mission.

But Faith couldn’t just let him kill people until his desire to be caught outweighed his desire to kill. She had to find him before then, and that brought her right back to the need to find a connection between the victims and the killer.

And the battlefields. They were the key. They were what made this killer different.

She sighed and shook her head ruefully. When she and Michael first read about Paul Martinez, they thought this would end up being a simple and mundane case. The guy gets stabbed and buried in the woods. Pretty damned run-of-the-mill.

Silly Faith. You don’t get the easy cases. There’s always something complex hidden beneath the surface.

That pulled her thoughts to the Messenger, the crazed woman who had released a near-constant stream of profanity while trying to crush Faith’s skull with a hammer in front of her dying dog. What was hidden beneath her surface?

She was easily among the most unhinged killers Faith had ever met, up there with the hyper-religious and sexually oppressed Demon of Morgan County who dropped attractive women down wells to deal with his guilt at desiring them or the Caveman in Western Idaho who lured hikers into an abandoned mine then murdered and mutilated them.

She was also among the most violent, easily outstripping the brutality of both Trammell and West. Faith was reminded of a saying she’d overheard one of her fellow agents use talking about his son.

What the parents do in moderation, the children do in excess.

The Messenger definitely exceeded Trammell and West in brutality, if not yet body count.

But while Trammell was a mentally ill giant who tortured people like they were small animals and West had a god-complex and needed people to know he was better than them, the Messenger didn't seem to be motivated by anything other than rage.

Faith wasn't even sure the attraction to West was genuine.

She had a feeling that if West had never existed, the Messenger would still have become a murderer.

Her phone rang. Michael. She put the Messenger aside and answered. “Hey, what’s up?”

“We have a lead.”

The excitement in Michael’s voice lifted Faith’s spirits. “Yeah? Tell me.”

“Dr. Marcus Sullivan. He’s a former professor at New York State University who trespassed several times on the colonial dig site before Patricia Norbury threatened to call the cops on him.

She said she didn’t tell Dr. Cuthbert because she didn’t want him to worry.

I get the impression she has a bit of a crush on him. ”

“That seems to be common among grad students,” Faith said drily. “What about the Hancock site?”

“Get this. No record of him showing up at the site, but the Delhi campus said that he called nine times asking for an exclusive interview with Dr. Winters before they stopped answering his calls.”

Faith smiled. “Good work, Michael.”

“Thank you, madame,” Michael replied. “He lives in Monroe, about halfway between New Haven and Danbury. Meet you there?”

“Send me the address.”

“Will do.”

He hung up, and Faith turned to Turk. “Okay, boy. We’re gonna get some exercise. Let’s run back to the hotel.”

She called a rental car company on the way and had them deliver a full-size sedan to the hotel as soon as possible. Thoughts of the Messenger were gone from her mind. She was on the hunt for a killer once more.