The White Carnation (19 page)

“You're right. The world is full of crazies. So what's this maniac done with the babies? Is he using the income he gets from selling them to support his cult?”

“You need to find the Smiths to answer that question. I told you in the hospital that I received five carnations, four of which line up with the dates you found the bodies, and the other one around Valentine's Day. What if there's a fifth body out there? One you haven't found. That would mean there's another child missing, too.”

“Since we agree the carnations were from him, it's a possibility.”

He grabbed a blank manila folder off the pile and wrote Victim #4 on it, before changing the digit on the Meredith Howard's file to 5. “As sick as this is going to sound, it means the original timeline the BAU came up with after we found victim number three is correct. The first body was found last May, the second in August, and the third in November. You're right. If we do the math, the fourth victim should have been found mid-February.”

Faye turned to face him, her face aglow as she pulled the threads together and wove her story. Gone was the scarcely hidden fear he'd seen earlier. This was the way she'd looked when she knew she was on the trail of something big. If she were right, this was far bigger than any of them had expected. With a story like this, she'd definitely be a contender for that damn Pulitzer Prize she wanted.

“Let's assume the Harvester is on a three-month schedule. He waits for one to give birth, knocks up another, and collects the next victim.” She rummaged through the files. “The cycle had to start sometime before you found the bodies. Kate Newcomb was his first, followed by Tracy Volt, and then Estelle Watters. Babies would be born every three months. Have you asked Clark to look into Ruth Hamilton's disappearance? Her giving birth in February would fit the timeline. There's got to be another woman out there he impregnated in February, one who doesn't even know she's on his list. Mary fits as his target after Estelle Watters gave birth.”

She paled and swallowed awkwardly as the truth hit her at the same time it did him. Faye was the planned victim after Meredith's death, and if that were the case, where the hell did Lucy Green's murder fit in? Rob stood and resumed his pacing, the fact the man had laid claim to Faye making his blood boil. Faye's cult theory fit better than anything else they'd considered. Even Meredith fit the pattern.

“If we assume he mistook Meredith for her cousin Liz, what does that tell us? Either the man pays little attention to the women he impregnates or someone else collects the women for him, something that actually makes more sense if the women are being watched. All of the other women disappeared near the beginning of their last trimester—Meredith vanished eight weeks ago. Liz left town after she miscarried. What if he didn't know she'd lost the baby and didn't know where she'd gone? Maybe he saw Meredith from a distance and assumed Liz had returned. Our victim had been living in South Boston. It's doubtful she'd have crossed his path before moving into Liz's apartment.”

Faye stood and walked to the window. “It's possible. Ask Clark to have Amos run the scopolamine test on Liz's hair. If the drug's there, we may have our answer. From a distance, they'd look alike, and once he had her, even if he realized he had the wrong woman, what choice did he have? He'd have to follow through just as he had the others. He wouldn't be able to admit he'd made a mistake. That would seriously affect his credibility, and the members of his cult might get suspicious.”

“Much as I hate to admit it, you have to be right. It's too organized, too involved to be the work of one man. Having a group of people do the various tasks makes more sense.”

Faye returned to the table and picked up the photograph of Meredith Howard. “I've worn my hair that way for years. As soon as I get the chance, I'm cutting it as short as I can.”

“Hey, you'd look good even if you shaved your head bald.”

Looking at him over her shoulder, she smiled. “Thanks.” Turning back to the table she continued to pick up photographs and set them down again. What was she thinking?

“What if the mothers don't matter at all?” she asked softly.

“What do you mean?”

“What if it's about the babies themselves, his babies? He knew Meredith's son wasn't his, but the others? Kate Newcomb's son would be a year old, Tracy Volt's daughter nine months, and Estelle Watters's little girl would be six months old. There's a three-month-old child out there, too. What if the Harvester is creating his own master race? His successors? It's like something out of a movie like
The Boys from Brazil
.”

“Let me run this idea by Trevor. You could be onto something.”

• • •

Faye finished drying the dishes and moved back to the table where they'd placed the folders. She and Rob had spent most of the day rearranging them, making notes as to how each aspect of the case was the same, where they varied and why, and placing the files in a new order. There were nine folders on the table now: Lucy Green's, the only one that didn't fit with the cult theory; Mary, Kate, Tracy, Estelle, X for the missing victim—Faye was convinced that was Ruth Hamilton—and Meredith. The final file bore her own name. She shivered at how close she'd come to being a victim.

Clark was out of the office on another case, and Rob had debated calling Tom, but in the end, they'd decided protecting her location outweighed asking Tom to get them some answers. They'd left a message and waited for Clark to return the call.

Rob had grilled steaks while she'd baked potatoes and made a salad. They'd eaten outside at the picnic table, enjoying the beauty of their surroundings and a nice merlot until the mosquitoes forced them indoors. At the moment, Rob was watching the ball game on television. The score was tied.

Opening the files, Faye removed the pictures of victims one, two, and three—the same photographs she'd looked at on Friday. These had been healthy, happy, young women.
What did I see in these pictures when I looked at them the other day?
She'd noticed their resemblance to one another and to Mary, but there was something else.
Why them? Why me?
Exasperated, she threw the pictures down on the table.

“I give up!”

“Give up on what?” Rob asked, looking away from the television. He reached for the bottle of wine on the coffee table and added more to his glass.

“Trying to figure out what I saw on Friday night when I looked at those pictures. I can't blame it on the booze, and I sure as hell don't want to think the damn drugs he gave me have some residual effects.”

“Maybe you're just tired. It's almost ten. I don't think Clark's going to call tonight. Why don't you go to bed, and we'll start over in the morning?”

The thought of going upstairs alone brought back the fear she'd managed to keep at bay all day.

“No, I'm not tired. Is there any merlot left?”

“Yeah.” He refilled her glass. “The game's over. I was going to watch the news. Is that okay?”

“That's fine.” She reached for the glass he handed her. “Thanks.” Taking a seat on the sofa next to him, she stared into the bowl of the wineglass wishing it held the answers she needed.

“I'm positive my cult theory is right, but I can't prove it as easily as you proved yours. There isn't a DNA test I can request. I'm convinced the babies are the targets and the mothers are collateral damage. This cult is controlled by a charismatic leader, who may or may not be doing the dirty work. He'll keep a low profile and rule with an iron fist to ensure everyone complies with his orders. This group won't be on Homeland Security's list. Its members stay under the wire, but I'll bet they aren't new either. It's the only way the Harvester could manage it, the only way he could be in all those different places at once and not be noticed. The Harvester is the perfect name for him. He plows the fields—unsuspecting women—plants his seed, and collects the crop when the time is right. He doesn't need the women anymore—so where is the fifth woman?”

“Hey, we didn't know there were five until Wednesday. Cut us some slack. Trevor's got teams checking the homes of every missing woman who fits the profile. You know, Faye, it's possible she's missing and no one knows it yet. He tends to go after women who live alone. He might have found one without relatives, without anyone who cares about her.”

“Her job would miss her. They'd contact the police, wouldn't they?”

“I don't know. I just don't know. Estelle Watters was reported missing after her editor lost contact with her. There are people who work at home who might go weeks or months before their disappearance is recognized and reported.”

“That's probably the most frightening thing you've said yet.” Faye yawned. “I guess I am tired.”

“Go to bed. I'll be right here on the couch.”

“I know it's stupid and makes no sense, but can you sleep upstairs again tonight? I just … I don't want to be alone.”

“Not a problem. Let me make sure everything is locked up tight, and I'll be right up.”

“Thank you.”

“Faye, there's nothing wrong with needing someone to watch your back now and then. It's not a sign of weakness; it's being human. You've been through a lot. Think of me as a temporary security blanket. Once you're feeling like your old self again, you won't need me or anyone else to tuck you in.”

She smiled weakly, praying that day would come sooner rather than later.

Birdsong and sunshine dragged Faye back to reality. Like the previous morning, she was snuggled spoon-like against Rob. Knowing she should pull away was one thing, but leaving the protective shelter of his arms, especially after another confusing dream, was another. He'd offered to be her security blanket, and by God she'd take advantage of that—not forever, but until she felt whole again.

The idea she could be attacked again, that she'd be as powerless as she'd been before, lingered in her mind and weakened her. Fear was unproductive. Cowering in the corner, waiting for that monster to find her, would eventually destroy her soul. Yesterday, she'd immersed herself in the case and had managed to suppress it, but last night, the thought of being alone in the dark, being vulnerable the way she'd been that morning in her apartment, crippled her.

I won't live this way.

Instead of moving away as she should, she melted into Rob. Drawing strength from him like this wasn't a frailty. As he'd said last night, sometimes you needed someone to have your back. The toughest marine in the corps didn't go into battle alone. The Harvester, or whoever the monster was who'd attacked her, might have used her body and stolen her free will and memories, but he wouldn't diminish her. Like her mind, her body didn't remember him. He had no hold over her. Heat filled her as she allowed memories of Rob's touch, his scent, his taste to surface. It had been months since she'd been with him like this, but desire quickened within her. She might have kicked Rob out of her heart, but her body sought the solace she'd always found in his arms.

“If you keep wiggling like that,” he breathed into her hair, and she could tell from his voice that he was half asleep, “I won't be responsible for the consequences.”

“Maybe I don't care about the consequences,” she said. “I need to overcome the sense of helplessness that monster's instilled in me. I want to feel alive and in control of myself and my body.” For a second, she thought he hadn't heard, but he slowly moved away from her to turn her onto her back.

“If there's one thing you aren't, Faye, it's helpless. You're the strongest woman I know. You'll get through this, and we'll catch the son of a bitch. Make no mistake.”

“I know, but right now, I want to feel normal. I want to go back to the way I used to feel when we were first together—no strings attached.”

As he leaned over her, his clear, blue eyes, filled with passion, looked deeply into hers. For a moment, his eyes stirred a memory, but need rose in her, obliterating all other thoughts. She lifted a hand to caress his face, the stubble of his beard rough against her palm.

“Are you sure? This may not be the best way to face your demons.”

“It may not be, but it's what I want.” She'd consider the ramifications of her actions later, but at the moment she wanted the release making love to Rob had always given her.

It was all the invitation he needed. He pulled down the duvet, and the cool morning air barely registered against her fevered skin. He reached for the hem of her jersey and slowly pulled it up and off, tossing the garment on the floor. His eyes held hers a moment longer, and then he looked down at what he'd uncovered.

“I've missed this,” he whispered, bending his head to kiss her.

Masterfully, he captured her trembling lips with his, and she sighed, opening to him. At first, the kiss was gentle, exploratory, searching to recapture the magic of bygone times. Spontaneous morning sex had always been the best. Fueled by a frenzied fear she couldn't control and the long, lonely months of abstinence, her response intensified. The kiss was hungry, probing, and intense, with fierceness and desperation.

Unable to stop herself, she ran her fingers through his hair, gripping his curls and pulling him even closer, her tongue the aggressor now. He moaned, moved his mouth away from hers, and feathered kisses along the side of her face, down her neck, and onto her breasts. His hands, callused from hours at sea working the ropes on his boat, followed the kisses and felt wonderful against her inflamed skin.

Caressing him in return, she thrilled at the feel of his muscular shoulders, lingering and stroking the scar from the bullet wound he'd earned years ago. He trembled at her touch, indicating he was as aroused as she was.