The Immortals (30 page)

T
here were three patrol cars at the Shell station when Taylor pulled in. And no sign of Ariadne. McKenzie had been redialing her number on his cell, but there was no answer.

Taylor ran inside and described Ariadne to the man behind the counter, who hadn't seen her. Nor had he seen anyone who looked like the drawing she pulled out. So no Ariadne and no Schuyler Merritt. Shit.

She went back outside, signaled to the officers. “Mount up. Let's drive up McCrory, see if we find her car.”

They all piled in their cars and took off, Taylor in the lead. The flashing blue-and-white lights made the road light up like Christmas, and it only took a few minutes until they saw a Subaru Forester parked at the side of the road, just at the rise of the hill. It showed no signs of life, no lights, no engine.

“Her car's there,” McKenzie said unnecessarily. Taylor pulled in behind it, the three patrols taking up defensive positions in front and on her flank, effectively blocking the road.

Taylor was out the door in an instant, Glock drawn in a two-handed grip, pointing toward the ground. She eased up to the vehicle. The driver's side window was broken, there was glass everywhere, inside and outside the car. A jagged
edge shone dark in the feeble moonlight; Taylor could smell blood.

“What's that?” McKenzie whispered in her ear. She stopped and stood tall, listening. Crying, coming from twenty feet away.

“Ariadne?” she yelled, walking toward the noise. She saw a lump on the ground, yelled, “She's here. Shit. 10-47, 10-67, code 3!” She holstered her gun, knelt down and rolled Ariadne onto her back. She cried out in protest.

“Relax, honey, it's okay. We've got help coming. Where is the boy?”

It didn't take a genius to see what had happened. Ariadne was grimy with dirt and leaves, her skirt twisted, flashing pale thighs smeared with blood. She cried out again as Taylor moved her hands over her in the dark. Broken ribs, probably, maybe a broken jaw. A bloody cut on her forehead.

“When you called, you said he heard you. Was it Schuyler Merritt, Ariadne? Did he rape you?”

A ghost of a nod. She was trying to speak, the words coming out low and jumbled. Taylor leaned her head down, close to Ariadne's mouth.

“Don't know his…name. Pulled me. From the car. Ra…ra…raped me. Drove off, after.”

The broken sentences exhausted her, and she let her head drift back down to the ground. Taylor felt for her pulse, reassured when she found it strong and steady. The damage wasn't life threatening.

“Okay, you're okay now. I've got you.”

McKenzie was squatting a few feet away. He took Ariadne's hand and whispered, “I'm sorry. We should have listened sooner.”

Taylor shot him a look, but didn't stop him. Getting herself and the department sued for letting a witness become a victim was the least of her worries right now.

She heard the comforting sound of sirens. Rescue was on its way.

She held Ariadne's hand tighter. Where was that little bastard going now? They had his woman, his friends in custody. His mother and father were dead, with cops crawling all over the two houses he might retreat to. Where else would he go?

“Ariadne. Do you know where he was going?”

“No,” she whispered. Taylor hated this, she hated the fucking hell out of this. Hearing that lively voice so dispirited made her want to hit something.

Rescue pulled up, got briefed and pulled Taylor from Ariadne's side to treat her. The EMTs were females, Taylor was happy to see. Sometimes rape victims balked at being treated by men—the 10-67 had alerted them, but it was still good luck. They had her fastened to a gurney and slipping off into the ambulance quickly.

“Where are you taking her?”

“Baptist,” was the brief reply.

Taylor walked with them to the doors, watched while Ariadne was loaded in. The harsh lights reflected the bruise on her jaw and the dislocation of the mandible. Taylor knew that had to hurt, and broken ribs, the sharp ends stabbing into lungs and skin, weren't a picnic, either. Ariadne was being awfully brave, not crying, those luminous blue eyes fixed on Taylor. She shifted under the azure gaze, read the words Ariadne put in her mind and turned away, shoving her hands in her pockets to keep them warm.

“Not your fault,” Ariadne said, as clearly as if she'd spoken aloud. “Not your fault.”

Quantico
November 2

B
aldwin did his damnedest to keep his voice steady. “Geroux and Sparrow died on scene. Butler passed away at the hospital during surgery. Gretchen lived, obviously.”

“You took a leave of absence after the firefight, correct?”

“Yes, sir, I did. I felt…responsible. For their deaths. If I'd thought of the tunnel earlier, none of this would have happened.”

“And the evidence linking Harold Arlen to the case?”

Baldwin tried very hard not to squirm. Now they were at the meat of the case. What he said at this very moment would determine his future, the future of his team, his life with Taylor. Everything. He swallowed hard.

“Sir, I believe that the blood evidence retrieved from Harold Arlen's dresser was planted by Charlotte Douglas.”

There were murmurs from the panel. Reever squeezed his leg under the table.

“And yet her notes are very specific. She was with you the night before the shooting. You made love. You told her that you had a solution to the problem. That you had taken a small vial of blood from the Fairfax County lab, put it on
a sock and left it in Harold Arlen's house. Do you deny these allegations?”

“Yes, sir, I most certainly do. I am truly at fault here. My actions got three good agents killed, and for that, I will never forgive myself. But as I stated earlier, Charlotte Douglas brought the idea to me. It was my mistake not to turn her in at that time.” He took a breath. “Sir, I never in a million years thought she'd actually go through with it.”

“But we have no proof either way. If you had come forward at the time of the shooting, let it be known that the evidence found was somehow in question, perhaps the next girl wouldn't have died. And the woman who you say is responsible is dead, unable to defend herself.”

Ah, here we go. The truth of the matter was they had all messed up. There was more to the case than anyone had thought, and Baldwin had been blind. He took a deep breath.

“Sir, I had no way of knowing that Kilmeade was Harold Arlen's partner. I suspected there was something between the two men, a twisted relationship, when Kilmeade allowed Arlen to befriend his daughter. But the odds of two men, two pedophiles, working together? It seemed preposterous at the time. On the surface it looked like Kilmeade was snatching the girls for his friend. But he continued after Arlen was dead. He was obviously the dominant in the situation, and we missed it. That tunnel between their houses was the key. They were shuttling the girls in and out, right into Great Falls Park. If we'd found it earlier… It's beyond the pale, sir. None of us saw it. There were multiple investigators on the case. Unfortunately, I was distracted by the case due to Charlotte's actions, and my own. Couple that with the terrible shock of losing three of my teammates, and I wasn't thinking as clearly as I could have been. It's not an excuse, but it is the truth.”

“No, you certainly weren't. Because if you'd been thinking clearly, you would have alerted this body to Charlotte Douglas's illegal actions, and she would have been prosecuted. You would have been prosecuted right alongside her
for allowing her to violate the honor and code of the Bureau. I don't know what's worse, Dr. Baldwin. Your lies to cover up Charlotte Douglas's actions, or your lies to cover your own ass.”

Reever cleared his throat. “There's no need for that, sir. Dr. Baldwin has been utterly honest and forthright here. He's answered all of your questions as openly and thoroughly as possible. And if I may point out, it's nearly midnight. Perhaps we should break for the day.”

“We won't be breaking just yet. We're all in agreement here. Dr. Baldwin's actions were evidence of gross misconduct. There will be serious repercussions. We need to meet privately to discuss what exactly the punishment will be. You may wait outside while we deliberate.”

 

He and Reever had been sitting in somewhat companionable silence for nearly an hour when Baldwin's cell rang. He jumped, startled. It was Garrett. This couldn't be good. He shrugged his shoulders at Reever and answered.

“They're still in there?”

“Yes. Have you heard anything? What did they decide?” Baldwin asked.

“I don't know yet.”

“They've been at it an hour. Really, how much more do they want from me? I gave them the truth, just like they asked.”

“The whole truth?”

“As much as they needed.”

“Well, then. It's going to be okay. You've already been punished enough for this. There's nothing they can do to you that would be worse than the hell you put yourself through.”

That was the truth. Baldwin hadn't handled his life very well in the months following Charlotte's revelations, the death of Harold Arlen. And the demise of his team. Instead of facing the music, he'd split town. Taken a leave of absence, run home to Tennessee and spent the next six months practically comatose on his couch. Alcohol had been his
friend then, a means to escape the daily torture of the guilt. It had taken a great deal of reassurance from Garrett, then meeting Taylor to drag him out of his depression.

The door to the hearing chamber opened. Reever stood and grabbed his arm.

“Garrett, they're ready for me.”

“Okay. Hang in there.”

He stowed his phone, squared his shoulders and entered the chamber.

Nashville
11:40 p.m.

T
aylor was only a mile from home, but the succor of the hearth fire wouldn't be hers for a few hours yet. McKenzie yawned in the seat next to her, long and loud.

“Where are we headed?” he asked.

“I thought we could try Subversion, see if he went there. Do you have any other ideas about where he might go?”

“Does he know Juri Edvin's in the hospital?”

“I don't know.” She called Marcus. He answered on the first ring. She filled him in on the situation with Ariadne and Schuyler Merritt, then asked him to go over to Vanderbilt. Juri Edvin needed guarding, at the very least. If Schuyler decided to drop in on his friend, they'd be ready for him. He told her the BOLO was out on Schuyler Merritt's car, a silver 2000 Hyundai Elantra. Good, all units were aware to be on the lookout for him, at least.

She was flying down Interstate 40. The only real traffic at this hour was long-haul eighteen-wheelers and a few drunks wheeling their way home from the bars. Cars and trucks alike scattered out of her path, leaving her the far left
lane open. She drove fast, the speedometer topping ninety. Running away from Ariadne.

“Damn it, what was that woman thinking, going out there by herself?”

McKenzie shook his head. “She thought she could handle him.”

“Yeah, right. The kid's already in the bag for seven murders, plus his parents, and God knows who else. Sure, she could handle him, a lone woman, in the dark, with no backup. I wish to God people wouldn't be so stupid.”

“She thought he was one of her kind. She's very powerful. I'm sure she thought he would bow to her authority. It was misguided, yes. But surely you can see, she was trying to help.”

“And nearly got herself killed in the process. She was raped, McKenzie. You know how that affects a woman. She'll never sleep easy again.”

“She won't, or you won't?” He said it kindly, but her nerves flared.

“This isn't my fault,” she said. They were passing the Hustler store on Church Street. Taylor went up to Broadway and turned left. She wanted to hit Lower Broad, the strip, look through the faces on the streets, see if she could spot her fledgling vampire among the masses.

“Of course it's not. That doesn't mean you aren't blaming yourself. You couldn't have stopped this.”

“I could have figured out who Schuyler Merritt was sooner. If I'd listened to Ariadne in the first place…” Her voice drifted off. Instinctively, she knew that wasn't the case. My God, they were only forty-eight hours in and hot on the trail of the final suspect in the case. It was damn fine police work, a group effort, and she knew that. But she still felt like a failure. She was going to carry the image of blood on Ariadne's thighs with her forever.

They drove around for two hours, stopping into Subversion, which only existed once a month, not nightly, as she'd imagined. No one in the building was a part of that partic
ular venue tonight—a dead end. At 2:00 a.m., she turned around at Second and Lindsley, took one last pass up the street, scanning faces and cars. When they hit Hooters, she turned to McKenzie.

“I give up. He isn't here.”

“Let's call it a night. We need sleep. Every overnight patrol is on alert, looking for him.”

“Do you mind stopping at the hospital before I drop you off?”

“Of course not.”

She powered the Lumina up Church Street, turned right at Baptist and pulled into the emergency room entrance parking. They left the car out of the way and went inside.

She flashed her badge at the desk, said they were looking for the rape victim. Ariadne had become a statistic, was forever labeled. Taylor realized what she'd done after the words were out—damn, it was habit. This was why they were trained to distance themselves from the victims, this searing feeling of guilt. She'd never sleep, never eat, never rest if she didn't. But Ariadne felt like a friend, and treating her as a number hurt.

The nurse behind the desk pointed them toward an exam room—at least she'd gotten some privacy, rather than being examined out in the curtains. Under the cacophony of beeping and shouting, Taylor heard the small noises of pain echoing throughout the E.R.—someone was vomiting, a despondent child cried quietly, a woman grunted in the pangs of early labor. Misery, on an epic scale, that's what the emergency room felt like to her.

She knocked on the door to Ariadne's room, entered without waiting for a response.

The witch was in the bed, a soft blue-and-white-checked gown tied at her throat. Her face was a mass of mottled bruises, the cut on her forehead sporting a few stitches, black against the swelling purple bruise. Her eyes were closed, but Taylor could hear the shallow breathing—she
wasn't asleep. She went to the bed, resisted the urge to reach out and grab the woman's hand.

“I'm sorry,” she said, low and quiet.

Ariadne opened her eyes, the cerulean gaze infinitely sad. “So am I,” she managed. Her jaw was swollen and dark with suffused blood. There was an X-ray on the lit radiograph box that showed what looked like a hairline fracture in the lower left mandible.

“They're going to wire me shut for a few weeks,” she slurred.

“Don't talk,” Taylor said. “I don't want you to hurt yourself.”

Ariadne rolled her eyes. “Hey, I might lose a few pounds. Can't be all bad.”

Taylor cracked a smile. If she was okay to joke, she'd live. A weight crashed off her shoulders. She stepped closer to the bed to avoid its fall to the floor.

“I will find him,” she vowed.

“I know. He will be punished. So will you, if you're not watching. Go careful, Lieutenant.” Ariadne was done in. She closed her eyes again. Taylor was certain they'd given her a powerful sedative, something to alleviate both the physical and emotional gashes.

Taylor patted her awkwardly on the hand and walked out of the room. McKenzie stayed behind for a few minutes, then joined her in the hall.

“What did she say?” Taylor asked.

“Nothing. She's asleep. I was just…”

He broke off, and Taylor nodded at him. She knew what he'd been doing, she'd done the same thing. Silently pleaded for forgiveness.

“Let's go.”

 

She'd never felt so wretched as she did at this moment, pulling into her garage, the house lights burning brightly on their new timer, designed to turn on the outside lights at dusk and off at dawn, gaily welcoming her back. The sorrow in
her gut wasn't just for Ariadne, but all of the victims—the children who'd been taken, Brittany Carson and her giving rush of life, the boy, Brandon Scott, betrayed by a lover. Nashville wouldn't be the same after this Halloween weekend, would forever be marked by the twisted desires of a teenage boy. The Green Hills massacre would be remembered forever—Ariadne was right; so long as there were living people to remember the dead, they'd reanimate, live on forever.

Would that be her feeling about Fitz, were he never found? Would a memory of the man be enough to suffice?

If she lost it now, there might not be any going back. She opted for being strong, grabbed a Miller Lite from the refrigerator, and went up to the bonus room. Her beloved pool table sat quietly in the dark room, waiting.

She pulled off the cover and drained the beer, grabbed another from the small refrigerator she kept up here for just this purpose.

Racking, breaking, shooting, the rhythm soothed her. She cleared the table in five minutes, playing eight ball against herself, then lined up the balls in a triangle for a game of nine ball. When she sank the seven she had a thought, glimmering in the back of her mind. By the yellow and white striped nine, she felt a peace steal over her limbs. Maybe it was the beer, maybe it was the pool, maybe it was knowing that no matter what, Baldwin would come home and they'd be together. She forgave herself and went to bed.

 

The phone was ringing. Taylor heard it, some part of her brain recognized the noise. She was so tired, sleep dragging her back into the clutches of darkness. She glanced at the clock—6:40 a.m. Damn.

She answered, forcing her voice to sound alert.

“Lieutenant? Commander Huston here. You need to report to Hillsboro High School. They've gotten a threat against the students. We've put them on lockdown. Looks like your suspect is there, waggling a gun around. He's got
a class full of kids hostage, and I've gotten reports that the security officer was disabled, though I don't know details. Get yourself over there. And Lieutenant? Be careful. This boy sounds like he has nothing to lose.”

She was already out of the bed. “I'm on my way,” she said, breathless, then threw the phone down.