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He shook his head. “No, killers don’t change their behavior like that. They’re either intentional from the beginning or not intentional from the beginning.”
“Usually, yes, but we’ve already determined that this killer is strict about some things and not strict about other things. He’s strict about the poses of his victims but not strict about the distribution of powder.”
“That’s the only real example we have, though. And maybe we’re wrong that he’s not strict about the powder. He’s using specific colors and matching them to specific symbols matched to specific elements. Maybe it just doesn’t matter how much powder you use as long as it’s the right kind and present on your victims’ bodies.”
“So maybe it doesn’t matter who your victims are, but it just matters where they were killed.”
“Or vice versa,” he said. “It’s a shot in the dark, but victim one was a long, straight-haired brunette, victim two had short blonde hair, and victim three was a curly redhead. Maybe victim four will have black hair.”
“Maybe, but with no connection between the victims, that doesn’t help us. We don’t know which dark-haired victims to warn.”
He frowned. “Yeah. Damn it. I just don’t get the apartment. The Botanic Gardens and the river I get, but why would a loft apartment matter? That’s why I don’t think it’s the location. Or if it is, I don’t know what the hell the meaning behind it is. Let’s say it is the location. We have thenigredovictim in a garden, thealbedovictim in an apartment, and thecitrinitasvictim on a path next to a river. Where would therubedovictim be?”
Faith shook her head. “I don’t know.” She yawned suddenly and deeply.
“I think we should get some rest,” Michael said. “It’s four in the morning already. We’re on our last legs, and we’re about to fall apart. I think we should at least try to grab a few hours of sleep. Maybe when we wake up, we’ll be able to think more clearly.”
Faith didn’t want to sleep, but they had been spinning their wheels for hours now. And shewastired. She had no choice but to agree with Michael. “All right. Tuck me in?”
“What?”
“Nothing. I was joking.”
“Where the hell did that joke come from?”
“No idea. Forget it, I’m just tired.”
He stared at her for a moment, then shook his head. “You definitely need sleep. You’re getting old, Faith. Your mind starts to wander after twenty hours awake.”
“Is that gray hair on your temples?” Faith asked.
“Screw you.”
“Looks nice. Distinguished.”
“Just for that, you can tuck yourself in.”
Faith chuckled and headed to the bathroom to change. Her mirth faded quickly, though. A part of her enjoyed these late-night brainstorming sessions with Michael. It reminded her of the good old days.
But this wasn’t for fun. Their killer had already murdered another woman. He was one step away from completing his Magnum Opus. In Faith’s experience, the closer a killer got to accomplishing his goal, the faster he worked. They might have less than twenty-four hours before another life was taken. It was Faith’s job to make sure that didn’t happen.
But as she lay awake, sleep eluding her despite her exhaustion, she feared that the last piece of the puzzle would remain missing until the killer himself placed it.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Faith’s eyes opened. She was in Dr. West’s office. That surprised her.
Why did that surprise her? She tried to turn and found her head was bound to the back of her chair. When she tried to lift her arms to remove the bonds, she found that they were tied to the sleeves of the chair as well. The chair itself wasn’t the upholstered easy chair that West kept in his office but a rough-hewn wooden chair without a cushion.
That's why she was surprised. She'd had this dream many times, but the setting was wrong. The chair was the same. The ropes were the same. But the room was different. She should be in a barn lit only by a crack in the wall behind her. Ahead of her should be a tray with rusty, pitted knives and saws and, beyond that, a door. Instead, she faced a high-backed, claw-foot leather chair. Sitting on that chair wasn't Jethro Trammell, the crazed killer that had kidnapped, bound, tortured and nearly killed her but Dr. Franklin West, the equally crazed killer that had tortured her psychologically for months before trying and failing to kill her friends.
Dr. West was reading a book, but Faith couldn't tell what the book was. That made sense. She'd heard somewhere that the part of the brain that could read words shut down during sleep, so you couldn't read anything in a dream.
Why was she thinking about that right now? What was going on?
Dr. West set the book down and looked at Faith. He smiled pleasantly, the same benign look he gave Faith during their sessions together. “Hello, Faith. How are you feeling today?”
“Why am I here?” she asked. “Why aren’t we in the barn?”
