The White Carnation (25 page)

Faye moaned and started to thrash. Rob hurried over to the bed, got in, and tried to pull Faye into his arms.

“No! No! Go away!” She tried to push at him, caught in a nightmare. She'd always been prone to them, and Dr. Chong had mentioned them as a side effect of the drugs Faye had been given.

As she often did when caught in a nightmare or overly stressed, Faye talked in her sleep, responding to anyone who talked to her. He'd settled her more than once at the hospital those first few days and attempted to do the same now.

“It's okay, honey, it's me. No one's going to hurt you.”

Faye moaned deeply and tears crawled down her cheeks, but she was lucid enough to understand his comment.

“The clown ... at the party … at my door … the flower … make him go away.”

Rob stilled as his mind raced back three weeks. Faye had had a dream about a clown and a flower the night they'd arrived. In the hospital, when he'd asked her what she recalled from Saturday morning, eventually she'd said a flower—the last thing she remembered was a flower. He knew some sleep-talkers could answer questions honestly and, although he'd never tested the theory, what harm could it do to try it now?

Faye continued to whimper softly against him, still caught in the dream. “Faye, sweetheart, is the clown still there?”

“Yes,” she whimpered. “He's bending over me, talking to me. Make him go away. He's going to hurt me.”

Her breathing increased as she plunged deeper into the terror only she could see. He hated to do this, but it might be a solid lead. “Honey, I'm trying to get to you, but there are a lot of clowns here. Can you describe him to me? What color's his hair?”

“It's green.”

“All green?”

“Yes.”

Rob's heart raced. His gut said if they could find this clown, he'd lead them to the Harvester.

“Saw him at the tea. Looks like the Joker,” she whispered.

He couldn't let her be tortured this way any longer. Waking her suddenly might not be the best way to do it, but he couldn't think of any other way to drag her from the terror. He reached for the bedside lamp and turned it on. “Honey, wake up,” he said loudly, shaking her. “You're having a bad dream.”

She awoke, blinking her eyes at the brightness of the light, and threw herself into his arms. He let her cry and waited for the tears to ease. He rubbed her back, murmuring into her hair until he felt her calm. She continued that
sup-sup
hiccupping and settled into his chest. Her voice, tear-clogged and hesitant, was barely above a whisper.

“Saturday morning, when I answered the door thinking it was you, there was a man at the door, a man I'd seen at the tea party Friday afternoon. He'd followed me around like a puppy dog. He was dressed like a clown, but not a typical one. He was made up to look like the Joker in that cheesy Batman
series we used to watch. You know, the old one with Cesar Romero as the Joker? He wore a bright purple tuxedo with a big flower in the lapel—it was a giant carnation. Smoke came out of it.” She shivered, and he pulled her closer. “I don't remember anything else. Rob, I'm scared. I'm so scared.”

“It's okay. I've got you. You're safe.” Holding her tightly to him, he resolved to call Trevor in the morning and have him look into clowns in the Boston area, specifically those who'd worked that tea party. How hard could it be to find the Joker
in Boston?

• • •

From the kitchen, Faye watched the animation on Rob's face as he listened intently to whatever information Trevor had this morning. Rob was right. They had to know why Lucy Green had been killed. Her death had opened this can of worms. In fact, without her murder, they might not have known any of this. She shivered. The Harvester would've come for her, and she'd have ended up like the others. Her stomach churned.

Faye yawned and collected the remnants of their breakfast. After the nightmare, which she vaguely remembered, she hadn't slept well, eventually managing a few hours only because Rob had held her in his arms. That in itself was another reason why she was so edgy this morning. Where would their relationship go once the case was over? Could they go back to the way things had been before the scandal? There was still a lot of baggage to sort through, unanswered questions, and of course the conflict caused by their jobs. Love hadn't been enough the last time, but with her life in his hands, she'd grown to trust him. She'd made a mistake. Rob would never have set her up like that, but if not him, who, and why?

She raised her hand to her temple, massaging it, praying the nascent headache wouldn't develop into a migraine. The lack of sleep had left her tired and irritable. Maybe she was coming down with something.

Rob walked into the kitchen and put his arms around her. He nuzzled her neck for a few seconds before turning her to face him. She needed his closeness today more than ever. The fear that usually fled in the daylight seemed to have a firm grip on her this morning.

“Trevor says hi. He's going to check with the groom's family, which provided the clowns for the tea, but from their online brochures, it looks like they don't have a Joker-style clown on their roster. He wants you to give me as clear a description as you can. He thinks it might be a rental, and there are several places that rent costumes in Boston. The more specific you can be about the outfit, the better. I really need you to focus on his face. Try to see his features beneath the makeup. I know it won't be easy, but this could be an important lead. It could be how he approached the others, too.”

She pulled away. “I've told you everything I remembered. Isn't that enough?” Her tone was abrupt; she didn't want to go there again. He put his arm around her, pulling her into him, and she went willingly. Held in his strong, muscular arms, pressed against his chest, his steady heartbeat throbbing beneath her cheek, she was safe. Nothing could hurt her here. She sighed. “I'll try, but …”

“I realize he scares you, Faye, and the memories are unpleasant, but you're the only lead we have. What about the rest of him? Was he short or tall, heavy or slim? Caucasian? I know he wore white grease paint with a silly, red smile painted on his face, but what about a mustache? A beard? His eyes? He looked at you, didn't he? Was he wearing glasses? I know you don't want to do this, sweetheart, but think back, please.”

She felt her skin grow clammy as the acid in her stomach churned.
God, I don't want to do this, but I have to. How many women will he rape and eventually kill if I can't help?

She closed her eyes and melted into Rob's heat, trying to draw strength from him.

“He was definitely white. I don't know why I'm so sure of that, but I am. He was tall, about six-two, shorter than you, and he was slender, almost skinny—the purple tuxedo was loose on him, as if it had been made for another man, so it probably was a rental. I don't remember any facial hair, but everything about him after the smoke is hazy. I think his eyes were blue but not like yours, deeper in color, no glasses. There was something about his eyes …” Her eyes filled with tears slipping unheeded down her cheeks. “Every time I try to remember more, I feel sick to my stomach.”

“It's okay. You did great. I'll email what we have to the sketch artist. She can work with that. The costume shop should remember him.” He stared down at her, his brow wrinkled. “Are you feeling okay? You didn't eat much breakfast this morning.” Concern laced his voice.

“I'm not hungry. I guess last night bothered me more than I thought it did, and now this … I'll have a cup of mint tea. It'll calm my nerves. You realize my rapist can't be the person who killed Lucy Green. He was at the tea with me most of the afternoon. I think I might've left before he did.”

“We know that now, but since Trevor and Amos agree the Harvester and the man who killed Lucy Green and the Smiths aren't the same person, we're back to thinking it's two men working together.”

“Does Trevor have anything new on the Smiths?”

“He does. Let me get your tea, and then I'll fill you in on the rest of what he told me. It looks like you were on the right track after all.”

Rob released her and went into the kitchen. Faye hugged herself, trying to dispel the chill she felt no longer in his arms. She'd always disliked clowns, but why had her rapist—and she was certain that's who he was—disguised himself like that? The Joker wasn't a typical clown nor did he inspire as much fear as the one from the more recent Batman movie, so why that costume? My God, he'd followed her around the previous afternoon. The idea that the monster knew her well enough to know seeing him dressed like that at her door would throw her off horrified her more than anything else did. He'd been taunting her, punishing her for some slight. She recalled the eyes now—manic eyes that were hauntingly familiar.

“Are you okay?” Rob asked, handing her a mug of mint tea.

“Not really. I know you said he's been watching me, but it's as if he managed to get inside my head. Drugging and raping me weren't enough. He had to terrorize me, too. Who is this monster?”

“He's a psychopath, Faye, he has to be. Nothing he does makes sense on any level you and I can understand. Come sit outside, and I'll give you the latest news. Trevor's people worked on this all night, and it looks as if they may have found your cult.”

Faye grabbed his arm with her left hand and turned him around, her former tiredness forgotten. “How? Where?”

“They've identified the Smiths. Their real names are Mabel and Isaac Williamson, last known address Grants, New Mexico, near Bluewater Lake.” He opened the door for her.

“New Mexico?” Her voice rose in her surprise as something about Bluewater Lake teased at her memory. “What the hell were they doing in Cambridge? Why the false name? Is it a black-market baby-selling business after all?”

“Maybe, but Trevor and his BAU agents don't think so. The Williamsons and a few dozen of their closest friends used to be on Homeland Security's watch list. Someone's probably going to lose their job over this.”

“Used to be? How does someone get struck from a watch list?”

“When someone screws up. The group was quite active in the sixties and seventies, but then they settled down into a communal existence, kept to themselves, and stayed out of trouble. Some of the more militant members of the commune died, and some bureaucrat looking to save money moved the commune's name onto the inactive list in the late nineties and forgot about it.”

“Any of the activists still living would be elderly now. The Williamsons weren't that old—mid-forties maybe.” Her palms were wet as her anticipation rose. Rather than sit in the Adirondack chair, she moved over to the picnic table and perched on its top. From this vantage point, she and Rob were eye to eye.

“They would be, but people have children. The Williamsons might have been born in the commune and stayed there. The man in charge was Thaddeus Lucius. He was ex-military, fought in Vietnam, bought the land about fifty years ago and settled there with his friends. If he's still alive, he's at least eighty now. He's never filed for his veterans' pension or Social Security. Since he was big on denouncing the government, it makes sense. The commune is set up as a trust, and all of its paperwork is in order and land taxes paid on time. The IRS checked the SSNs of those who lived there. They thought they might catch some of the people on tax evasion, but everyone who was gainfully employed filed a tax return on time, including the Williamsons, who filed their taxes last month. That would be fine except that Mr. and Mrs. Smith have been living in Boston for the past four years and filed their taxes here as well.”

Faye's eyebrows rose. “Seriously? Are you sure it's the same people? No one willingly pays twice as much tax as they need to.”

Rob smiled. “Exactly. So why would they?”

Rob settled on the picnic table beside Faye. He'd struggled with that question, too, and wondered if Faye would come to the same conclusion that had everyone at Homeland Security scrambling.

She chewed her lower lip. “Because they didn't want anyone to know they were here.”

“Exactly. As long as taxes are paid and the paperwork is in order, even the IRS doesn't get nosy. Apparently it's a fluke we were able to recover the bodies and identify them. Fingerprints gave us their true identities. Young Mr. and Mrs. Williamson had a scuffle with the law in New Mexico about twenty years ago. They got caught shoplifting and were fingerprinted. According to the file, they spent the night in jail but were released the next day when someone from the New Horizon commune came in and paid for everything. The charges were dropped, and the files should've been destroyed, but the old sheriff, a by-the-gut type of lawman, didn't trust the collective, and the prints stayed in the system.”

“Just because someone from the commune bailed them out doesn't mean anything. It could've been a parent, and living in a commune doesn't mean they're part of a cult.”

“I know, but bear with me. Isaac's been living and working in Boston for the past four years. The address on his business license is bogus, so we have no idea where he and his wife have been staying. We assume it's in the Cambridge area since that's where they brought the baby, but it could have been anywhere in Greater Boston. He was still carrying his New Mexico driver's license according to the DMV, renewed it three years ago. He was living in Boston by then.”

“Maybe their stay in Boston was meant to be temporary. Business license?” she asked, her brows furrowed. “People don't set themselves up in business without help from banks, and arranging for an ironclad alias that'll stand up to official scrutiny takes money and connections. What kind of business did he have?”

“Here's where it gets interesting. Williamson was the manager of the Fotomat franchise where you, and incidentally all the others, including Mary, had passport pictures taken.”