SPENSE THOUGHT HE detected a glimmer of excitement in Caity’s eye when he suggested they put her profiler skills to the test. He recognized the effects of an adrenaline rush brought on by the prospect of a solving a puzzle whose solution—or lack thereof—could spell life or death. Her cheeks flushed, her pupils dilated, and her posture, even while sitting, had a certain spring to it.
“I’m game,” she responded without hesitation and without knowing what he would suggest.
A bright twilight was descending on the little courtyard in the Southwest Museum of Art. Spense could see a squirrel nibbling in the flower garden, and with no one else in the area, this quiet, spiritual place provided an ambience conducive to the task. He folded his arms and leaned forward, resting them on the tabletop.
“Close your eyes.”
She didn’t ask why. At his request, she simply let her eyes flutter closed. He grinned to himself at how easily she complied with his commands. He couldn’t deny the charge he got out of that, given the way she normally argued with him over the smallest point. Then he took a good look at her face, full of trust, ready to do his bidding, and his chest grew tight.
She was so damn beautiful.
So damn good, and he was about to send her straight to hell and back. Right now, she was enjoying the game, anticipating the challenge, but there was dark work to be done. Profiling was an art as well as science, and what better time to introduce that subjective element than now, when they were pursuing a lead as ethereal as the Man in the Maze? Sometimes, the only way to break a case was to leave the constraints of your own mind behind and become the predator. Not like a medium, but simply by empathy—a quality that cold-blooded killers lacked, yet one that was absolutely necessary for a profiler. “This is the hard part, Caity. Before we go any further, I need you to understand that this is the moment where things get real—and not in a good way.”
She frowned, but her eyes remained closed.
“We’re about to leave the realm of cold hard facts, the stuff you and I both love, and enter . . .” His voice trailed off before he could finish his thought. If he told her the truth, that she was about to enter the twilight zone she might laugh, and the atmosphere would be ruined. “We’re going to utilize a different part of your brain. I’m going to ask you to put yourself inside the killer’s mind and see the world from his point of view. Are you ready for that?”
He watched as her throat worked in a hard swallow.
She nodded and placed her hands palms down on the table.
“Okay.” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “The meaning of art is in the eye of the beholder. So imagine you’re looking at a beautiful tapestry with the Man in the Maze motif. What do you see?”
She smiled. “Peace. A path to understanding.”
“Good. Now let’s do it again, only this time I want you to look at the maze from the inside. Only you’re not Caity anymore. You’re our UNSUB, a stone-cold killer at the heart of a labyrinth. Now what do you see? Describe it for me.”
The evening breeze lifted her hair, and she breathed deeply. Spense inhaled along with her, taking in the scent of the Arizona outdoors—verbena, honeysuckle, and wildlife—and nearly reached out to stop her. He hated to send her down the rabbit hole of the UNSUB’s mind. “Close your eyes. You’re the Man in the Maze. Now . . . tell me what you see,” he repeated.
She cleared her throat, as if resisting the descent into darkness. One more breath, then she began: “I’m the Man in the Maze.”
“Where are you, what’s happening in your world?”
“I’m in the museum wandering through the exhibits with my wife at my side. I love to come here on Sunday afternoons with my beautiful lady on my arm, especially when I’ve just found a new girl, and my mind’s buzzing with planning and preparation. It relaxes me, and I like showering my mate with attention before I go on the hunt for fresh meat. She’s been a good wife, and she deserves to feel appreciated. Her favorite room is the textile exhibit, and she likes to hold my hand and lean on me just a little as we walk.” She smiled in a cunning way. “I’m sure we look very happy to everyone who sees us, and that’s a good thing because as long as my wife can convince other people we have a perfect marriage, she doesn’t interfere with my activities. She doesn’t expect me to be a good husband anymore.”
Caitlin paused a long time, so Spense prompted her. “Why not?”
“She knows me too well and gave up on that a long time ago. But appearances are very important to her, to both of us really. So I take her out on Sunday mornings, and in return she doesn’t ask where I go on Saturday nights. The Southwest Museum of Art is her favorite place to pretend we are happy because it also lets her pretend she’s smart. We both like to pretend—so many things. And anyway, I don’t mind a bit of culture. It gives me something to talk about with the coeds other than the usual discussion of their boyfriends and how their boyfriends don’t satisfy them, inside the bedroom or out. I know I can take them to a place where they’ve never been before.”
Caity’s body jerked, and he knew she didn’t want to keep going. This time he didn’t prompt her. It was her decision whether to continue. A long time passed, minutes maybe, then her shoulders relaxed, and she began again.
“As I think about the coeds, and what I will do to them, how I will make them grateful for the lessons I teach them, I give my wife’s hand a comforting squeeze. She smiles at me in full performance mode. Sometimes she gives such a good performance, I even believe in the charade. I smooth a hand over my silk shirt. I’m dressed up, but not for the museum. It’s because we’ve just come from church. The minister likes to talk, and I like to use that time to fantasize.
“His long sermons give me plenty of time to think of all the things I want to do to the coeds. I laugh to myself about how hard church makes me. I look at my bulging crotch, knowing my wife sees it, too. Then I check out my shoes. They’ve gotten dusty from the walk up the pathway to the museum. I’ll have to polish them before class tomorrow and adjust the mirror. I have a tiny mirror in my loafers that looks like a penny. It lets me see up the skirts of the girls in my classes. I’ve been doing that for years. Long before I ever got bold enough to do what I really wanted to them.” One of her hands balled into a fist. “I love giving them my attention, and I love letting them see how smart I am. They look up to me, as they should, and I inhale their worship like oxygen. I am their teacher. I am the Man in the Maze.”
The wind picked up, and a plastic cup blew across the cobblestones, making a clunking noise. He worried it would draw her out, but she continued, barely missing a beat.
“My wife leads me to a large bowl in a glass case at the museum. I see the decorative labyrinth, and I think how much I’d like to be the man at the center of that maze. In the dark, dead center of the labyrinth, I alone would hold the power. I would teach my ways to my little minions, and they would go out into the world and do the things I’d taught them. Afterward, I would make them prove their loyalty by producing a tribute.
“Isn’t the Man in the Maze remarkable? my wife asks.
“Yes, I answer. I love this idea. It’s taking hold of me. I can feel the fingers of it digging into my flesh like talons. The coeds aren’t enough for me anymore. That look of fear in their eyes seems just an appetizer. Each time I relive the moment of their death, it loses its potency. I need something to hold me over between my conquests, and that’s when I decide. I will be the Man in the Maze. I’ll find willing pupils, and we can share the excitement of our kills with one another. Then I will have the pleasure of their work, as well as my own.”
Caitlin’s hands clamped around the arms of her chair. Her body shook, as if she might cry, but the spasms passed without tears. She opened her eyes, and her gaze found Spense. “Let’s get back to the apartment,” she said in a tremulous voice. “I need to look at the autopsy photos and ME reports again. I think I just might be onto something.”