Jackson 05 - The Immortals (11 page)

She wanted to talk to Sam about it, but Sam was already upset and attuned to the breach in Taylor's mental protocol. They'd assiduously avoided the topic after Sam bitched her out for flirting with Memphis at an autopsy. Taylor's face burned at the thought of their fight—she hadn't been consciously flirting and was hurt that Sam had implied otherwise. But now, after Memphis told her so starkly what he was feeling, now that they'd had some physical contact, regardless of how minute it was, she didn't know how to put her emotions into words for her best friend.

And since Sam was pregnant again, she'd be drawing in, focusing on herself and her family. Taylor's silliness
wouldn't be of importance. She suddenly felt isolated, alone, for the first time in several years. Truth be told, she didn't have that many friends who she felt she could talk to, not about matters of the heart.

Nothing to be done for it, then. Shrugging to herself, she chalked it up to being lucky to be found attractive by two men, and left it at that. Baldwin was the better of the two, the one she wanted to be with forever, and she certainly didn't plan on endangering their relationship because another man had a little crush on her.

Thinking about other men invariably led her to Fitz, and she reminded herself to call the North Carolina State Bureau of Investigation again. Surely she'd find someone there who could listen to her side of the story, who would be willing to put pressure on the Coast Guard, or search the ports, something, anything, to help her find him. She felt her blood pressure rise thinking about her theory—that the Pretender had taken Fitz—and felt better. Fired up. Worrying about Fitz was much more important than worrying about Memphis.

She passed the offices of Channel Five, wondered what they were cooking up today. The Green Hills Massacre, they'd called it this morning, with shots of Taylor speaking at the press conference. She honestly didn't think she'd ever felt more pressure to move forward on a case than she did at this moment.

Quantico
June 15, 2004
Baldwin

T
he alarm rang insistently.

God, morning already? There was a dull ache in his head. He kept his eyes closed against the glare. He'd forgotten the blinds last night, and sun was leaking in through the wooden slats. His mouth was completely dry—it took a few tries to work up enough lubrication to swallow. When he did, the taste of bourbon rose on his tongue. That's right. He'd been drinking last night. They all had. The sight of that little body just off the trail in Great Falls Park, broken and pale, her legs shattered, her blond hair slashing across her face like a golden blindfold, was enough to set them all off.

He shifted his head, and pain shot through his temples. Wonderful. A hangover to help with the autopsy of little Susan Travers.

He cracked an eye and saw the clock—7:45 a.m. The beeping seemed to be getting louder. He reached out to stifle the god-awful racket and realized his arm was pinned. He tugged experimentally and felt the pressure, wasn't cogent enough to realize why. He swiveled his head to the
left slowly and saw a spill of dark red hair, like blood, across his pillow.

He fought the urge to pull his arm back as if bitten by a snake. Oh, shit. What had he done?

The owner of the red hair shifted slightly, allowing him to retrieve his arm. It was fully asleep, and he gasped slightly as blood rushed back into the deadened nerves.

“Aren't you going to turn that off?” a sleepy, throaty voice asked.

Charlotte.

Jesus, he must have had more to drink than he thought. He didn't remember…oh, now it was coming back. He'd walked her to her car. She'd been crying. He, ever the gallant savior, had brushed a tear away with his knuckle, and then she'd been closer, touching him in a way they both knew wasn't a good idea. His head had dipped and the feeling of her soft lips overwhelmed him. It had been too long since he'd been with a woman, and his body ached with the need to feel inside her.

He'd felt inside her, all right. He could feel the stickiness in his groin, and the flesh there tightened in memory.

He reached over and silenced the alarm. He glanced to his left, saw the wide amber eyes staring at him. An awkward quiet settled upon them, then Charlotte smiled. He felt a delicate hand straying up his thigh. He couldn't help himself—he reacted quickly. With one part of his mind screaming,
What in the hell are you doing?
he shifted his hips a bit so her hand landed directly on him. She stroked him, softly, expertly, her free hand roaming across his chest, and when he could stand it no longer he rolled on top of her, parting her legs with his knee, catching her lips in a kiss. He drove himself deep between her thighs, not caring if he hurt her. From what he remembered of last night, Charlotte liked it a bit rough.

He heard her breath catch as he entered her, felt her teeth on his lower lip. She raked her nails along the already tender flesh of his back—Jesus, she'd scratched him open. He had
a moment's urge to bite her in payback. Instead, he reached his arms around her back and used his hands to cup her buttocks and lift her slightly, allowing him to go deeper and deeper. She was fighting him now, matching each thrust with one of her own, her legs thrown around his waist, her eyes focused inward. He remembered that look from last night, and smiled. The exquisite building began, the age-old rhythm going faster and faster, and he lost himself, not hearing her triumphant cries.

 

Thirty minutes later, freshly showered and holding a cup of steaming coffee, he stood in the kitchen of his apartment, watching Charlotte move around his home with a practiced eye.

She picked up the new John Connolly he was reading,
Bad Men
. Baldwin almost laughed when he saw the book in her hand; the title took on a whole new meaning for him this morning.

Charlotte smiled at him, a predatory housecat on the prowl. “You have good taste.”

“He's always been one of my favorites. Coffee?”

She looked across the room at him, the mask dropped, her body angled in sly invitation. She arched her back and said, “Mmm, yes, please.”

“Coming right up.” He moved to the coffeepot and poured her a cup, pretending he didn't hear her next statement.

“I could get used to this,” she said, and he shuddered inside. The last thing he needed was an involvement with one of his team. He'd already stepped over the line.

He splashed another swallow of coffee in his mug, then turned to her, keeping his face as neutral as possible. He didn't want to encourage this. It was a mistake. He handed her the cup.

“When you're done, let me drop you at your car. We can't go into the office together. I don't need any more scrutiny than I already have.”

Her face dropped for the briefest of seconds, then she
recovered, raising a delicate eyebrow. “Like that, is it? You'd rather pretend that last night and this morning never happened?”

She sidled into the kitchen, sinuous and graceful, slipping her arms around his waist. He had to admit, she was incredibly appealing. The scent of musk and roses filled his nostrils, and he breathed in deeply, aware that he was hard again. Good grief. He'd unleashed the genie in the bottle.

“It's not a good idea, Charlotte. You're a beautiful, intelligent woman, but—”

Charlotte was rubbing against him again, grinding her hips into his with precision. She set her coffee down, then took the mug from his hand and transferred the warmed flesh to her now-exposed breast. How did she manage to get out of her shirt so quickly? He lowered his head and flicked his tongue across her nipple. She accepted the invitation and eased down his zipper. He glanced over her head at the clock on the stove and decided, what the hell. He'd been under enough pressure lately. Maybe he'd been wrong to fight this. Maybe being with Charlotte was exactly what he needed.

Charlotte was small, only around five foot five, and easily lifted. She was wearing a tight black skirt, the same one that had been bothering him the night before. He quickly discovered she'd neglected to put on any underwear. He settled her on the counter, bent her backward, running his palm down the length of her body, and sheathed himself again. She giggled, and he felt a laugh build in his own chest. Here they were, going at it like a couple of teenagers, not even bothering to undress. It felt good. Better than he could have ever expected.

Charlotte

Baldwin dropped her at the car in a strangled silence. Embarrassed? Regretful? She didn't know his looks well enough to be able to tell what he was thinking. Not yet.

She respected his discomfiture, slipped out of the car without saying anything. She had a fresh change of clothes in her trunk—she always had a go bag packed for the times they needed to attend to a crime scene in person. She drove to work, slung the bag over her shoulder and slipped inside. Only the guards at the desk saw her, and who were they to comment? It wasn't the first time an agent had done the walk of shame into work.

After she changed, Charlotte took an extralong time in the bathroom. She hadn't been able to do her hair properly—instead of fine, red silk, the ends were waving and a bit frizzy. She used a special boar-bristle brush to get them tamed down, then reapplied some makeup.

There, that was better. Would they be able to tell? She stared in the mirror, taking in every detail. Yes, her lips were a bit puffy and red around the edges. His beard, all bristly, had scraped the tender skin nearly raw. She thought about the other parts that were raw and was pleased to see a fine flush make its way up the bone-china skin of her neck into her cheeks. Oh, that was pretty. She looked ripe, a perfect grape plucked from the vine.

No wonder he couldn't resist. She'd make sure he never would again. She knew how to press his buttons now.

She grabbed her bag and went to her desk. The rest of the team was already assembled. Butler and Geroux didn't give her much of a second glance, but Sparrow looked at her, eyes narrowing. Charlotte mustered up the most angelic, innocent smile she could, then raised her eyebrow in a sultry hello. Sparrow openly thawed.

She'd need to be careful there. It was going to be tricky navigating two relationships, especially if Sparrow wanted to start getting possessive. Sparrow was a pretty girl, prettier than she knew, trim and athletic, with an adorable crossbite. Charlotte had seduced her three weeks ago, after a long evening celebrating the close of their first case as a team. They'd done the girl thing, slipped off to the bathroom together, and Charlotte had locked the door behind them and
let Sparrow go down on her while she sat on the counter with her legs spread wide.

Goodness, she was starting to feel quite warm. Mmm, maybe Baldwin and Sparrow? No, probably not. Baldwin seemed a bit too parochial for all that. But it made for a nice fantasy. This was the way she preferred to live her life, with one partner of each sex on the hook. Hard and soft, dark and light. She smiled to herself, then opened her computer, just barely pushing the image of the three of them intertwined on Baldwin's office floor from her mind. She needed to focus. This case, this stupidly named case, was driving her mad.

She didn't understand men who committed crimes against children. Adult-on-adult violence, yes, she could fathom that. It was one of the things that made her a good profiler—she had a certain empathy with the killers. For her dissertation she'd interviewed more than forty serial offenders, and almost all of them had given new information in their cases. One had even coughed up the location of a body—shocking, considering he'd been using it as leverage to keep his privileges.

Yes, she was good with killers. She'd excelled in her classes, gotten her Ph.D. in record time, had been snapped up by the Bureau right out of school. She'd worked her way into the BAU with a combination of intelligence and sheer guts. But working cases involving children was not her forte.

Sparrow came into her office with a stack of files.

“More sex offenders to interview today.” She barely brushed her arm against Charlotte's shoulder as she placed the folders on the desk.

Charlotte scooted her chair back a little and swiveled so she could see Sparrow face on. She raised an eyebrow and waited in silence. She knew what was coming.

“I tried calling you last night. I thought we were supposed to meet up.”

“You called?” Charlotte feigned innocence—God, she
should win an Oscar for that tone. “I must have slept right through it. Yesterday was so awful, and I had a lot to drink last night. I'm sorry, honey.”

Sparrow blushed at the endearment. “Well, maybe tonight? We could get Indian. I know how much you love it. Drink some wine, unwind a little?”

“Maybe tonight, sugar. We'll have to see what the day brings though, right? Lord knows there's a creep out there just waiting to be caught. Let's go get him, yeah?”

She ran her fingernail up Sparrow's leg, then flipped her chair back into the proper position and pulled the first file off the stack. Sparrow, firmly dismissed, hesitated a moment, then left her in peace.

Yes, this was going to be very, very complicated.

Nashville
8:50 a.m.

T
he CJC sat baking in the late fall sun, heat shimmering off the building's bricks. Taylor hadn't realized just how warm it was today—after the previous night's chill, it felt almost like summer. Crazy weather for the first of November.

People flowed in and out of the building, officers in uniform and plainclothes detectives, random strangers looking for the courts, black and white and yellow and brown, all mingling into one stew of justice. The diversity of Nashville was never better represented than in this one spot—the Criminal Justice Center in the morning.

She parked the Lumina in the back lot and headed inside, up the stairs to the landing that held a new industrial ashtray, dark gray and heavy plastic, with a slot at the top for the spent cigarettes to disappear into. Though she'd quit more than a year before, she still had cravings now and then. She had to admit it was nice not seeing used butts sticking up like matchstick men arrayed for battle from the depths of the reusable kitty litter that used to serve as sand.

She swiped her card and entered, wondering just how
many times she'd followed this exact route in the past. Hundreds, thousands of times. Always hurrying into the office to work on the most pressing cases. She rather envied her old boss Mitchell Price his new late-night office hours.

The place was buzzing with activity, the hallways full of people moving between appointments. Nodding to faces she recognized, she stopped at the soda machine—she desperately needed a Diet Coke this morning. Cold can in hand, she entered the homicide offices.

Commander Huston was standing by Marcus Wade's desk, flipping through a manila file folder.

“Morning, ma'am,” Taylor said.

Huston turned and nodded to her. The woman was no-nonsense, five foot six, a runner with muscled calves and a compact body, veins protruding in her forearms. She wore no makeup. Her hair was short and hand-styled over her ears, a light brown streaked with blond from excessive time in the sun. She'd been training for a marathon, and Taylor knew she ran fifteen miles after work every evening. She admired the dedication Huston put into her life—work and running took all of her focus and she was good at both.

And she let Taylor manage things in Homicide, which was even better.

Huston turned and gestured to Taylor's office. The two women went inside and shut the door. Huston took the chair opposite the desk.

“Fill me in, Lieutenant. What's happening?”

“We have some crazies, that's what's going on. The letter sent to the paper was marked at the end in blood with a grouping of symbols that look to be pagan. McKenzie is at the library right now, trying to make sense of them. There was a phrase under the bloody marks, ‘Blood is intensity, it is all I can give you.' Tim Davis is running through everything now, getting what he can from it.”

“Prints? Delivery method?”

“I don't know about the prints yet, and the letter was
found on the floor in the ground-floor hallway—that's the back entrance near the printing presses. Those doors are locked—only
Tennessean
employees can get inside that way. Their security guy figures someone shoved the letter through the doors, but he didn't see it happen on film. We've got the tapes. I'll have Lincoln look through them and see if he can spot anyone. What I'm worried about is the film.”

As she spoke, she tapped in the address of the video. She swiveled her monitor toward Huston, made sure the volume wasn't overly loud. When the screaming started, she didn't want the entire building to come running.

Huston watched for a few minutes, pale under her tan, then met Taylor's gaze with worried brown eyes.

“What can we do?” she asked.

Taylor clicked the stop button. The screen froze, the wide-fanged mouth mocking her. “I've already asked Lincoln to get in touch with the company and get it pulled from the site. I can't imagine they'll fight us on this. I need to check in with him, see where we stand.”

“You're meeting with the administration at Hillsboro this morning?”

“Yes, ma'am. Ten.”

“It's nearly nine now, I'd best let you get to work. Keep me informed, especially about this movie. I've heard from the hospital. Young Brittany Carson is not doing well. She isn't expected to make it, it's just a matter of time. She never regained consciousness. Too much damage done by the drugs, I suppose. I'm sorry, I know you worked to save her.”

Taylor sighed deeply. “I work to save them all, ma'am. It seems to be a losing battle somedays.”

“Yes, it does, Lieutenant. Yes, it does. Make sure your detectives talk to the department psychiatrist by the end of business today. I'm sensing this case will be bothering everyone for quite some time. That goes for you, too.”

“I'll pass the word along. Ma'am, I have a request. Forensic Medical is going to be overloaded on this case, and
the multiple toxicology screens and DNA runs are going to take weeks if we send them to TBI.”

“Yes, they will. What do you propose?”

“In the past, we've used a company called Private Match to do time-sensitive work. I'd like to get permission to have the samples sent there for testing.”

Huston cocked her head to the side. “I think that's a good idea. I'm already getting pressure from on high to get this case solved as quickly as possible. If you think that Private Match can help us attain that goal, then I'm all for it. I'll make the necessary arrangements.”

“Thank you. That's going to be a help.”

“Get some sleep, Lieutenant. That's an order.”

Huston shook Taylor's hand, then opened the door and disappeared. Taylor took her hair out of its ponytail and ran her fingers through it, combing it out. Huston was easy to work with, though much more formal than she was used to. Regardless, she was a woman who knew how to get things done, and that's exactly what Taylor needed right now.

One problem solved. She didn't have time to get meditative about Brittany Carson. She had to admit, she'd been hoping the girl would pull through. And she really didn't feel like sitting down with the department shrink.

Marcus came to her door, knocked softly on the doorjamb.

“Yeah,” she said.

“We've got a name on the man who appeared in the crime-scene footage. We've sent a patrol to pick him up. With any luck we'll have him here by 11:00 or so.”

“Why so long?”

“He lives north of town—it's transport time.”

“What's his name?”

“Keith Barent Johnson.”

“Okay. What's so special about Mr. Johnson that we were able to identify him so quickly?”

“You don't recognize the name?”

“No. Should I?”

Marcus smiled. “He was in the system, so I checked him out. He was arrested last year after making threats against the president. Ended up getting busted for tax evasion.”

“Oh, yeah. I remember him. He's a kook.”

“Yep. A kook who's all over the Internet calling himself the king of the vampires.”

That got her attention. “You're kidding.”

“I kid you not. Lincoln needs to see you, if you have a minute.”

“I have just a minute. I need to get to Hillsboro. Will you look over the security tapes from
The Tennessean
for me, see if you can see anyone slipping a letter through the back doors?”

“The letter from the killer?”

“Yeah. Keep it quiet. I want to hold as much of it back as possible.” She briefed him, then said, “McKenzie's researching all the symbols right now. Hey, listen. What happened to our kid from last night, the one Simari's dog took a chunk out of?”

“He's still in the hospital. The bite hit into the muscle in his leg. He's going to have surgery this afternoon, then some recovery time.”

“Good. I want to talk to him again.”

Lincoln joined them, dreads standing on end. He looked rough. They all did—no one had gotten any sleep last night. They were all wearing yesterday's clothes, running off of caffeine and adrenaline.

“The video company is working with us, but it doesn't seem to matter,” he said simply, sinking into the chair closest to the door. He ran a weary hand across his dreadlocks, getting them into a bit of order.

“What do you mean? They won't take the video down?”

“No, they complied immediately. It breaks their community guidelines. YouTube took the video down after it got flagged by several viewers as obscene. But it's gone viral. People have downloaded it to their own computers and are uploading it to other video-sharing sites. They all have a
version running—Vimeo, Vuze, MSN, Yahoo!—and everyone's trying to work with us, but it's growing too quickly. At last count ten video sharing sites on the Internet have it. Some have cut the end, where Brandon Scott is murdered, some have it intact. We can't keep up, though I've been doing my best. Word on the street is this is the work of an underground film crew. Some of the Hollywood wannabes apparently do high-quality independent work, especially in the horror genre. The message board and comments are lit up like Christmas trees, debating whether it's real or just incredibly excellent editing. And people are e-mailing it around, too.”

“Son of a bitch. It's like a bloody hydra. Get on the horn to Judge Botelli, and call A.D.A. Julia Page. See if there's anything legal that can be done. And make sure YouTube releases the information about how and where the original upload is from. That's evidence, and I'll be damned if I let their free speech issues get in the way of an eventual conviction.”

“Not going to be a problem, they're working on it. Whoever posted it was pretty sophisticated, was able to reroute through several servers to cover his tracks. They'll get back to me as soon as they nail it down.”

“Has the news picked it up?”

“Yes.”

“Fuck!” she said, slamming her palm onto her desk.

Eyes blurred with fatigue, Lincoln managed a grimace. “That's pretty much my sentiment, too.”

 

Taylor texted McKenzie as she left the CJC to let him know she could pick him up at the entrance to the library in five minutes. As she exited the building, Sam called.

“We swabbed the wounds of all the victims. I'm certain the cause of death was a drug overdose, so I'm sending the blood work in for more comprehensive toxicology. I talked to Vanderbilt. Brittany Carson's blood showed high concentrations of methylphenidate, methylmorphine, para
methoxyamphetamine, methylenedioxymethamphetamine and diazepam. Lethal levels. I assume that's what we're dealing with here, too.”

“English, Sam?”

“Sorry. Just what the early tox screens indicated—Ritalin, codeine, PMA and MDMA, that's the stuff in Ecstasy and Valium.”

“From the laced Ecstasy? Jesus. Someone took a great deal of time to get the right chemical compound together and disguise it in the tabs of X. When will the posts be done?”

“Not until this afternoon. I just wanted you to know that we're on the possible DNA. It's going to take time, though.”

“Reroute everything to Private Match. I've already gotten permission for them to run the extra toxicology screens and the DNA. Tell them to put a rush on it, okay?”

“Will do. Everything okay over there? I heard that there's a video of the murders floating around.”

Taylor got in the car and snapped on her safety belt. “There is, though the Internet companies are working to get it taken down. It's gone viral, and it's everywhere. Thankfully, some people think it's a horror movie, but the truth will be out soon enough.”

“I'll keep working on everything. You hang in there.”

There was a note of kindness in Sam's tone that had been missing for the past few weeks, and Taylor felt tears prick at the edges of her eyes. She missed Sam badly.

“I'll do my best. Thanks for handling the posts so quickly. Is there anything else I need to know?” she asked.

“No. But if I get something new, I'll call.”

“Good. Talk to you later.” She slid the phone into her front pocket and picked McKenzie up at the library steps. He got in the car with a wide grin on his face.

“Hey, before I forget, you need to see the shrink today at some point. Huston's orders.”

“Oh, Victoria? I mean, Dr. Willig.”

“You know her?”

“Sure. She's great. I've talked to her from time to time, about…things. You know.”

Taylor did know. McKenzie had lost his fiancée to suicide, and bore the weight of it on his shoulders. He would always feel responsible, because his sexual preference dictated that he had to break their engagement and the girl couldn't handle the news. He'd come from Orlando to Nashville last year to get away from the trauma of it all. Taylor knew she was one of two people who knew the whole story—the other being McKenzie's partner, Hugh Bangor. They'd met on a case and were quite close.

Make that three people. Dr. Victoria Willig was on the in with McKenzie too, it seemed. That was good. The more comfortable McKenzie became with his sexuality, the less it would matter at work. She had a tolerant bunch of cops around her—they'd have no problem with him being gay. But the department as a whole was a different matter. Metro Police was like the military and professional sports—don't ask, don't tell.

“We're going to be late,” he said.

“I know that.” She pulled away from the curb, turned left on Sixth and headed across Broadway to Twenty-first. “You obviously found something.”

“I did. The symbols I didn't recognize, the triangles and the circles with crosses in them? They represent the Watchers. They're the guardian angels, invoked during circle spells for protection.” He shoved a sketch under her nose. She glanced down to see what looked like stick figures.