Quentin said steadily, “I’m betting he made sure the victim couldn’t make a sound.”
Diana nodded and hurriedly changed the subject, mostly to try to divert her mind from thoughts of a gagged victim who had certainly tried to scream in agony. “The crows. They usually roost at night, right? And they prefer more open areas, not as heavily wooded as this. Usually.”
“Yeah,” Bishop answered. “And the crows in this valley have returned to most of their normal habits, according to Finn, at least until now. The one named Tia who’s been communicating with Nellie and now Hollis definitely seems to be one of their leaders, so a night visit from her was maybe timed then simply in order to meet Nellie alone and establish the communication. Normally, they do roost at night. But we don’t know for certain they haven’t disrupted that habit recently as well as begun patrolling. Tia didn’t say how long they’ve been doing that. Or even how, whether individually or in a—”
“I don’t have to be a telepath to know what you’re thinking,” Quentin said when his boss broke off. “A flock of crows is called a murder, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, though I would guess the average person doesn’t know that.”
“With ravens, it’s a conspiracy,” Diana murmured. “I remember reading that somewhere.” She had spent much of her free time the last few years reading virtually everything she could get her hands on, simply trying to catch up on all those lost years. “But we don’t have one here, right? A conspiracy of the other kind? Tia led you guys to Megan’s grave low on the eastern mountain, and we find this—these remains at nearly the same time fairly low down on the northern mountain. It doesn’t mean two killers. Does it?”
“No, I don’t think so,” Bishop replied. “We have too little for a preliminary profile detailed enough to help us, but can make some educated guesses based on what little we do know. Even with months between the first and second killings, we very likely have a single killer. One victim last summer, probably his first, because he took care to hide her remains and because killing her was enough for him—for a while. And he likely would have waited for quite some time to see if he was going to get away with murder. Realizing he had would have emboldened him. But to move like this, to take Simon Cavendish so soon after taking Cole Ainsworth . . . something may easily have changed his plans.”
“Or,” Quentin suggested, “the escalation is because he was forced to wait longer than he wanted to in the beginning, after he killed Megan. Need has to be driving him, because it always drives this kind of killer.”
Diana was frowning. “Or maybe . . . though need drives him, something else is also driving him to move fast, especially now. External more than internal reasons. If this victim is Cole Ainsworth, and Simon Cavendish is in the unsub’s hands now, hidden somewhere or being . . . tortured, then . . .”
Nodding, Bishop said, “If he knows about the Blackwood elder’s farseeing, knows there was any kind of a warning specifically to the families, that we know who to look for, that could easily be additional pressure. He could feel pressed to move faster in order to satisfy his need to kill before we can shut down his victim pool.”
“Or time could drive him in another way,” Quentin suggested.
“Yeah, it could. The valley isn’t huge, but we aren’t an army; the faster he moves, the more likely he could keep us moving constantly without giving us much time for gathering and evaluating evidence, for strategy, for time to do much more than identify the victims he leaves for us. But if we can very clearly identify his victim pool, that still gives us an edge. I hope. At least enough of an edge to alert potential victims and protect as many as we can.”
“And give potential victims an edge,” Quentin said. “Hopefully, at least. It’s a town filled with psychics. Maybe they can use those abilities to protect themselves.”
FINN CAME BACK around the boulders to join the others, his face set. His previous experience of torture victims had been only dump-site photos taken by Geneva back in January. That had been bad enough, and didn’t make viewing the remains of this victim any easier.
Steadily, he said, “I can’t identify him for certain other than knowing he’s male. But at a guess it’s Cole Ainsworth. I don’t believe it’s Simon Cavendish. Simon is dark; correct me if I’m wrong, but I’m—guessing—this victim was blond, and that fits Cole Ainsworth.”
Bishop nodded. “There’s enough hair left untouched by the blood to tell that much.” He frowned. “Just enough.”
“Think it was deliberate?” Quentin asked.
“Could be. He hardly left a square inch of the body untouched in some way, before and after death, yet just enough blond hair to make that visibly clear.”
“Why would it be deliberate?” Finn asked.
“Maybe taunting us. Playing games. He might have believed there’d be more time before we could be certain Cole Ainsworth is actually missing, and grabbed Simon so quickly to further muddy the water, make us uncertain who the victim is, at least for a while. Or he could be making certain we know or at least guess there is or will be a third victim, since Simon is dark.”
“To keep us looking for someone we might be able to help instead of looking for him,” Diana said. “Another thing to keep us concentrating on to slow down our gathering and analyzing of evidence.”
“If he knows how we work,” Bishop agreed. “How most law enforcement typically works. Or if he can just reason it out. The priority is always going to be on locating victims we can still help. That’s true of any law enforcement officers, including us.”
“I really hope he doesn’t know as much as you believe he might,” Finn said.
“We always hope that,” Quentin said.
Diana was glancing around them almost absently, and her voice was restless when she asked, “Finn, are you sure Simon is missing?”
“All I’m sure of is that he isn’t at work, isn’t at home—and it doesn’t look like he got home last night. He left the bank later than usual and walked; it’s only a few short blocks to his condo and he very seldom drives. His car’s parked at the condo, keys on a table by the door. He didn’t stop at any of the restaurants or cafés. He’s been taking work home these last weeks, with Nellie making some changes at the bank, but his briefcase isn’t in his condo or his office. His regular cleaning service came yesterday, and while I happen to know he’s a neat guy, no way he’s that neat: There isn’t a thing out of place at his condo, just like the service left it, including clean sheets on a bed that hasn’t been slept in.”
Diana wondered if Finn was even conscious of his determined use of the present tense.
“We’ve already checked with his coworkers at the bank,” he went on. “Most left before he did, and none of them have any useful information. We’ve found no witnesses along his usual route home. I’ve got a team following up on his friends outside the bank, and Cavendishes who don’t work there but might know something. Many have already been questioned generally about anyone potentially missing because of Cole. I just don’t know if we’re going to find out any more than we already have.”
Bishop said, “It should have taken Simon how long to walk home?”
“No more than half an hour even if he strolled. According to security, he left the bank just after six thirty. Home by seven, say a quarter after at the very latest.”
“A forty-five-minute window.” Bishop shook his head slightly. “And he left the bank later than usual; if the unsub had targeted him, he had to be lying in wait somewhere along Simon’s usual route home.”
Quentin nodded in the direction of the victim they had found here. “And we’re fairly certain because of what was done to him and what’s left that this man was being tortured for hours, that he was almost certainly still alive when Simon was taken.”
Finn said, “So from that and from what Megan’s spirit told Hollis this morning, this victim had already been taken before Simon disappeared, and was . . . suffering . . . even then.”
Quentin said, “Which likely means that last night the unsub had to leave this victim, probably here, then get himself down to town, snatch Simon—planned or because the opportunity was there—then take Simon somewhere he felt it was safe to leave him. While he came back here and . . . finished up with this victim.”
“Taking one victim while he had another,” Bishop said, “even if he felt rushed for whatever reason, means planning and preparation, a lot of it. I doubt Simon was taken because he just happened to be where he was.”
Quentin nodded. “So the unsub had to lie in wait, maybe longer than he planned because Simon was later than usual, then immobilize Simon quickly and quietly, and get him out of downtown because you had people patrolling the area.”
“And then take him to whatever place he had ready,” Diana said.
Nodding again, Quentin said, “Even if most of the downtown businesses were closed by then, there are restaurants all around. Plus the patrols. It would have been at least reasonably likely that someone might have seen something. He couldn’t waste any time getting Simon out of the area.”
“Simon would have passed very close to two of the restaurants on the way to his condo if he took his usual route.” Finn paused, then added, “As nearly as I can figure, we were all at one of them at just about the right time.”
Quentin said, “Man, I hate knowing that.”
“We weren’t near the front windows,” Finn reminded him. “Even if any of us had been looking, we wouldn’t have seen anything.”
“And that’s assuming he was grabbed off Main Street,” Bishop added. “The condos I’ve seen are all at least a block or more off Main.”
Finn nodded again. “Yeah, his is. Two blocks back. One of my patrols was downtown about the same time and reported nothing unusual along Main. We’re trying to get a list of who was still downtown and in the general area and might have seen him. Might have seen anything. As for a hiding place . . . we’re checking every building, looking into storage areas, basements. Again.”
“He has to know you would be.” Diana was frowning. “So . . . the unsub could have just had his car there, right? Knocked Simon out, probably tied him up, dumped him into his trunk. Driven away.”
“That’s probably more likely than having a hiding place downtown,” Bishop agreed. “Nobody’s going to openly carry a grown man any farther than necessary, even after dark, and especially in the downtown area. But he couldn’t have driven all the way up here to get back to this victim; there are some forestry and other service roads on these mountain slopes but none close.”
It was Finn’s turn to frown. “Yet he transports this victim, somehow, into an area with no road access for hundreds of yards minimum. Maybe sometime yesterday, fairly early. Even though your team had people moving all over town and up here on the slopes as well?”
“We hardly covered the area,” Bishop pointed out. “Not even down in town, and certainly not up here. And we got a late start yesterday.”
“Still, do you see a killer taking that kind of risk?”
“We’ve all known killers to take bigger risks. He could see that sort of thing as a challenge. But I’d expect this unsub to be more cautious, at least until he gets a better sense of what we’re doing to find him.”
Quentin said, “From what Hollis picked up yesterday afternoon, the unsub had already started working on this victim by early afternoon, and it’s clear most of what was done to him was done here. So I’m betting this victim was here, at least by then. Whether the unsub was still working on him while we were moving around . . . maybe. Or maybe he knew we were searching and settled in somewhere to watch. Plenty of places all around the valley where he could have kept an eye on activity, then come back here after dark.”
“He may have deliberately left us another sign, something he wanted us to see,” Bishop said. “One battered hand and wrist, one battered foot and ankle. Ligature marks around wrist and ankle. Deep. This victim was held immobile for quite some time. Probably securely enough that the unsub felt safe leaving him here, especially if he knew none of us were near this area or likely to be.”
“Then it got dark,” Finn continued. “And he knows any of the search teams on the slopes would be pulled in. Decides to grab Simon as planned. Gets himself into position and waits. Goes after him. Disables him. And Simon is not a small man and is in fairly good shape, so it pretty much had to be a blitz attack. Stashes him maybe in a trunk because it’s easiest, quickest. Comes back up here.” He shook his head. “I’d prefer to hope he saw an opportunity and took it rather than followed a plan to grab Simon when he already had this victim in hand.”
“So would I,” Quentin said. “But I agree with Bishop; it’s more likely Simon was planned.”
“We need to establish a timeline,” Bishop said. “Dr. Easton can help with that. We need to know how this victim died, and when. And how long he could have lasted under the kind of torture evidenced here.”
Diana hoped the sudden return of her queasiness didn’t show. She had seen mangled bodies before, in the field and at the body farm. Too many. Still, it was so hard to be professionally detached from horrors. From seeing them and knowing all the terrible things that had been done to what had been a living, breathing, feeling human being. And especially so when she was very afraid more horrors were waiting.
SIMON CAVENDISH TRIED to wake himself up, wondering fuzzily why his alarm hadn’t gone off. Because he thought he’d been sleeping a long time. His eyelids scratched against his corneas, and his head felt stuffed full of cotton and ached. Pounded, really, right on the edge of a migraine.
Maybe that was why it was so dark.
That must be it. He had a migraine, and so he’d gone to bed and used the blackout drapes in his bedroom to make sure no light got in to disturb him. So his head would stop hurting. That was why it was so dark.
For a while he lay there, his eyes closed again, vaguely satisfied now that he understood why his head pounded and why he was lying in the dark. But then he tried to shift slightly, because he thought one of his arms had gone to sleep.
He couldn’t move.
Simon stopped trying for a bit, thinking about that. Trying not to listen to the little voice in his head that was telling him a lot more was wrong than just one of his thankfully rare migraines. He tried to remember going to bed with a migraine, but the last thing he remembered . . .
He’d left the bank. Yes. Walked home. No—started walking home. Turned off Main to walk the two more blocks to his condo. And then . . . what? And then the migraine had hit him all of a sudden, hadn’t it? It must have, because he couldn’t remember . . .
He couldn’t remember anything. Just a blinding pain in his head, and then nothing.
That wasn’t a migraine.
Simon opened his eyes, admitting to himself that this was not the darkness of his bedroom. This was . . . this was too dark. It had weight, this darkness. Substance. It pressed against him, threatened to smother him because he couldn’t seem to catch his breath. And not a sliver of light showed anywhere.
He tried to move again, cautiously this time. He could move his legs a bit, but his ankles were pressed together. Tied together. And his arms were . . . his hands were behind his back, he thought, and numb; he tried to move his fingers and couldn’t. Because his hands were tied together too.
He was lying on his side; he knew that. But not in a bed. He was lying on something hard.
Simon lay there for some amount of time that felt like forever. Or a few seconds. Trying not to listen to the voice in his head that was louder now and telling him he was in trouble, bad trouble. The voice that was edging past panic and into something that felt like terror.
Swallowing, he tried to call out, “Hello?” and heard his own voice sounding both hoarse and oddly muffled.
When he tried to move his legs more, his knees bumped against something hard. He managed to move his aching head back, and felt a flash of new pain when he pressed against something hard behind him. He wanted to turn over onto his back, and tried, but when he moved his heavy legs his knees again bumped against something hard.
Above him.
He could hear himself breathing in short, jerky pants, and he imagined it was getting even harder to breathe. Surely that was his imagination. It had to be. His heart was slamming against his ribs, and his head was still pounding sickly, and he knew he was shaking. Maybe that was why it seemed harder to breathe.
Maybe that was why.
The darkness wasn’t getting any lighter even though his eyes were wide-open. And suddenly the voice in his head was too insistent to ignore, even though listening to it terrified Simon.
You’re in some kind of a box. A small box. You never got home, Simon. Somebody hit you. Aylia Blackwood said a monster was hunting in Salem, hunting the Five.
The monster’s got you.
And he’s buried you alive.
That was when Simon Cavendish began to scream.