Twisted

  Abruptly, the results window of his system popped up, displaying an early success using the test data he’d provided:

  Strong linkage. Rapes reported March 13, June 23, September 3. Victims African-American women, ages 20, 27, and 30. Locations: Cypress Hills Houses, Blake Avenue, East New York section of Brooklyn, New York. Edenwald Houses, East 229th Street, Bronx, New York. 143rd Street, Jamaica, Queens.

  These crimes were over three years old. The NYPD had arrested the perpetrator just six months ago. Imagine if they’d been able to solve the crime in three months rather than three years. How many women had that SOB raped in the intervening period? How many victims might have been spared the lifetime scars caused by this traumatic violation?

  Elliot’s thoughts were interrupted by words scrolling across the screen: Press Y to continue, N to Start a New Operation. He typed N and pressed the enter key.

  The latest kidnappings had been entered into the database.

  Professor Helen Daniels and her daughter Abby. Two simultaneous victims. Lake near a college campus. Hypodermic needle. State College, Pennsylvania.

  Carefully, Elliot checked his notes from the marathon debriefing this afternoon one last time, and circled the final key piece of information to enter. It was a tentative profile of the “Unsub”—as Sloane referred to him in FBI speak—that had been developed by the BAU. Carefully, Elliot added the target profile to his system.

  White male. Mid-to-late thirties. Probably a loner. Can’t establish normal sexual relationships with women. Aberrant behavior most likely rooted in warped sense of male/female relationships developed during childhood. Targets prostitutes as high risk, high-visibility victims. Either eldest son or only child. Strong belief that he is more intelligent than the masses and exempt from social restrictions. Possible military background, stationed in the Far East. Knowledge of Mandarin and Fukienese. Chosen homicide method—cutting/stabbing/slashing. Copper coin with python on one side and goddess on the other left at each crime scene.

  Satisfied that all the information had been properly structured, Elliot typed in the phrase: constrain results using Skippy as target.

  Despite his worry over Sloane’s safety, he had to grin. She’d punch him out for using her nickname. Maybe that’s why he’d done it. Maybe he was grasping for something comforting, a touch of humor to cling to as the only semblance of humanity in this nightmarish ordeal.

  The system responded: constraining results using Skippy as target.

  Elliot then entered the final command: find relationships using victims.

  The status window displayed: thinking…

  There was no point in sitting here, gaping at the screen in anticipation. The truth was, Elliot had no idea how long it would take his system to generate results. It could be hours, days, weeks before anything materialized. If anything materialized at all. He shoved that thought aside with a shudder. No way. He had to think positive.

  The system’s progress would need to be monitored 24/7. A schedule had been created and posted online, with Elliot and his two most trusted grad students taking turns watching. Elliot would have his cell phone on at all times. Anything that showed up was to be reported to him immediately. The process was complicated. Sometimes the system presented a single search path, other times it presented multiple ones. In the case of the latter, decisions would have to be made—one branch, another branch, or all branches. Sloane and the team would provide the investigative instincts. Elliot would be responsible for the rest.

  Time was of the essence.

  So was getting it right.

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-SIX

  DATE: 28 April

  TIME: 0800 hours

  The anointment room has been scoured and readied.

  The goddesses themselves feel the excitement in the air. They don’t understand what its cause is, but they will. Each of them has so completely transformed into her namesake that all their passages will be peaceful and natural. That’s as I intended it. I’m proud that I’ve done such a splendid job. I’d feared for Gaia. Now that fear is gone.

  I’d also feared that Demeter and Persephone had arrived here too late to adapt to what was to come. Their progress astounds me, as does Demeter’s knowledge of plants, fruits, and vegetables and how they make the spirit grow and thrive.

  What a profound contribution she’ll make to Mount Olympus as their new goddess of agriculture.

  As for Persephone, she’s like the onset of spring. Young, fresh, rife with promise. She reminds me so much of what Artemis must have been like at that age.

  It pains me that I wasn’t able to give Artemis this opportunity back then, when she was young and naive like Persephone is now. If things had been different, she wouldn’t have had to waste her life in this ignoble wasteland. Like Persephone, she could have embarked on womanhood as a goddess, rather than battling her way through a mire of depraved mortals before arriving at her final destination.

  I’ll make it up to her. Here at New Olympus, I am Delphi. It’s the perfect pseudonym. Delphi, Apollo’s sanctuary, a shrine ultimately dedicated to him, but before that, to Gaia. Once I soar to the real Mount Olympus, I’ll take my rightful place as Apollo himself. My first order of business will be to have an elaborate temple built for Artemis—one that far surpasses the Temple at Ephesus previously dedicated to her. Everyone will worship at her shrine, just as they’ll worship Gaia at Delphi.

  And I’ll be joyful. Because no one could ever revere either of those two goddesses more than I.

  Ascension is almost upon us.

  New Olympus will be gone, having outlived its usefulness. Our souls will have long since separated from and risen above the vessels known as our bodies. Those vessels will have been consumed in a glorious funeral pyre, leaving nothing behind but ashes.

  My temporary monument to the gods will be no more.

  The dust—all that remains of each vessel—will be written up in law enforcement files, and, eventually, forgotten.

  But the goddesses and I will live on throughout eternity.

  Now all that’s left is for me to bring Artemis here so she can take her rightful place among us.

  Our enemies are still out there. Like the serpent Python, they’re set on killing us, and preventing our passage into eternity.

  They’re fools. Nothing they do will matter. Artemis trusts me. She’ll come willingly.

  For now, we share our special connection in my dreams.

  In mere days, we’ll share it forever.

  John Jay College of Criminal Justice

  Multipurpose Room

  New York City

  7:05 P.M.

  The austere, cafeteria-like room at John Jay College had been transformed into a warm party room. Dusk was just filtering in through the windows, creating a social aura rather than an academic one. Strains of classical music drifted through the room, which was filled with festive decorations, bowls of punch, platters of hors d’oeuvres, and trays of hot dishes. The setting seemed more like a private dining room at an exclusive club than an all-purpose room at a city college.

  Twenty or so people—mostly faculty members, law enforcement colleagues who taught workshops at John Jay, and a few of Lillian’s close friends—were milling around, chatting and helping themselves to the food.

  “This is lovely,” Sloane murmured as she and Derek hovered in the doorway. The party was business casual, so Sloane was dressed in a bright aqua silk blouse and black silk pants. And Derek was wearing a blue striped dress shirt, unbuttoned at the collar, and navy slacks.

  “It certainly is.” He voiced his agreement with a nod. But his penetrating midnight gaze was already scrutinizing the room’s occupants. “The school did a great job. And this private room is very conducive to keeping a close eye on things.”

  “Derek, our Unsub isn’t a moron,” Sloane muttered drily. “He’s not going to burst into a public place, club me over the head, and carry me off. So could you please stop looming in the doorway
like a mountain lion about to tear someone’s throat out?”

  Derek relaxed, and his lips twitched at her analogy. “Point taken. I’ll leave the mountain lion at the door.” Another quick glance around, this time more relaxed and friendly. “Do you know everyone here?”

  “Not even close.” Sloane shook her head. “A few casual acquaintances from my visits and workshops here.”

  “There’s Elliot.” Derek tipped his chin in the direction of the buffet.

  “Predictably standing next to the food,” Sloane noted, following Derek’s gaze. “The attractive redhead he’s talking to is Lucy Andrews. She’s a professor here in the sociology department, like Lillian. The two of them also coinstruct a Gender Studies course called Sex and Culture.” A pause, filled with sad realization. “I’m not sure if she’ll cancel the class now or run it alone.”

  “She looks like a take-charge kind of woman. My guess is she’s perfectly capable of handling the course alone—if she chooses to.”

  Derek’s frank remark caught Sloane off guard. She wasn’t sure how to interpret it, and she angled her head to gauge his reaction. “Do you want to meet her?” she asked offhandedly. “She’s smart, single, and just broke up with her boyfriend. Could be a match made in heaven. So what do you say? Shall I make the introductions?”

  One dark brow arched. “Not amusing. And not interested.”

  “Too bad. She’ll be impressed when I tell her you’re an FBI agent. And she’ll be really impressed if you show her your Glock.”

  “Tempting.” Derek shrugged, with a glint of humor in his eyes. “I don’t need to flaunt my assets. Any way you slice it, I’m an impressive guy. Women just can’t keep their hands off of me. It’s a curse. But I’m learning to live with it.” He chuckled as Sloane jabbed him in the ribs with her elbow. “You asked for that one.”

  “Maybe. But that doesn’t mean I have to like your answer.”

  “True.” Derek pressed his palm into the small of her back, guiding her into the room. “You know,” he commented. “That reaction of yours sounded a lot like jealousy. Come to think of it, so did that whole speech about the redhead.”

  “Don’t flatter yourself.”

  “I’m not. I’m just making an observation—one that happens to be a real turn-on, by the way.” Lightly, he caressed her back, his fingers warm against the cool silk of her blouse.

  Sloane couldn’t help the inadvertent shiver that ran through her. She felt it, and so did Derek.

  “Yup, this party is definitely looking up,” he declared. He steered her toward the buffet table. “Let’s get some food and something to drink.” A quick wink. “Once I’m fortified, I can charm throngs of women into bed. Punch?”

  “Don’t tempt me.”

  He chuckled. “Not me. That mysterious liquid stuff in the bowl. Do you want some?”

  “Sure.” Sloane wished that Derek’s cavalier attitude didn’t make her feel so irked. She wished she didn’t give a damn whom he slept with. She just wished she didn’t give a damn, period.

  Derek leaned past her, ladling out two cups of punch. “Stop fuming,” he murmured near her ear. “You’re all I want. If you don’t know that by now, then you’re not just high maintenance, you’re dense.”

  Sloane felt his words down to her toes—which irked her even more.

  “Still pissy, huh?” Derek grinned as he handed her the punch. “If I play by your rules, you’re pissed. If I tell you I want you, you’re pissed. What you really want is not to want me. Well, that ain’t gonna happen. So just give in to the inevitable.”

  “No.”

  “Fine. Your choice.” With another offhand shrug, Derek handed her his glass of punch so he could reach around her to fill two plates with food. “There’s just no satisfying you, Sloane Burbank,” he said in a low, husky voice, his breath grazing her hair. “Except in bed. Now, there I seem to be getting straight A’s.”

  “Say that any louder, and I might choke you,” Sloane warned, accepting her plate of food and taking a pointed step away from Derek.

  “I appreciate the warning. I’ll keep my intimate comments to a whisper.”

  “Hey, you two.” Elliot strolled over, his plate piled high.

  “What, no Krispy Kremes?” Sloane inquired. “Your stomach might go into shock.”

  “Nah. Krispy Kremes are for work. Real food is for parties.”

  “Where’s Lillian?” Sloane asked, her gaze darting from person to person.

  “In the ladies’ room. Luke’s waiting outside for her.” Elliot saw Sloane’s expression, and gave her shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “Actually, it’s a good day. I haven’t seen Lillian so energetic in weeks. I think being the guest of honor agrees with her.”

  On cue, Luke wheeled Lillian into the room.

  Sloane couldn’t deny Elliot’s words. Despite her pallor and obvious loss of weight, Lillian looked pain-free and in good spirits. She had Luke stop the wheelchair several times so she could talk with her guests. Then she spotted Sloane, and twisted around to tell Luke.

  He managed a smile as he pushed his mother’s wheelchair over to where Sloane, Derek, and Elliot stood.

  If it was possible to age in a matter of days, Luke had done so. He looked positively haggard, as if he hadn’t slept in weeks, with deeply etched lines around his eyes and a tight furrow between his brows. It hadn’t been that long since Sloane had seen him, yet his shoulders were stooped as if he were carrying the weight of the world on them. Then again, maybe he was.

  “Hey,” he greeted her. “It’s good to see you.”

  “Same here.” She leaned forward to kiss his cheek. Then she bent down to do the same for Lillian. “You, my dear lady, look fabulous,” she declared. “I’m not sure you should be allowed to retire.”

  “And I’m not sure I’m ready to leave,” Lillian replied with the air of someone who’d made peace with death. “But God has other ideas. So I’ll trust in His decision.”

  Silently, Sloane marveled at her courage. “Derek,” she said aloud. “This awe-inspiring woman is tonight’s honored guest, Dr. Lillian Doyle. Her escort, who also happens to be a friend of mine and a great guy, is her son, Luke.” She gestured from Luke and Lillian to Derek. “This is Special Agent Derek Parker. We were colleagues in the FBI field office in Cleveland, and we’ve been working together on special cases here in the Big Apple.”

  “Now, that sounds intriguing.” Lillian’s eyes twinkled as she shook Derek’s hand. “I’d love to ask you questions about those cases, since I find criminal investigations fascinating. But I know better. As Sloane has taught me over the years, everything is either confidential or classified. Both those words mean ‘butt out.’”

  Derek chuckled, reaching over to meet Luke’s firm handshake. “We try to say it more diplomatically than that, but, yes, I’m afraid that comes with the job.”

  The twinkle vanished from Lillian’s eyes. “Speaking of which, is there any news on Cynthia Alexander? Or is that question taboo?”

  “It’s not taboo,” Sloane answered carefully. “You’ve read pretty much all there is to know in the newspapers. Leads are great—if they actually go somewhere. Right now they’re not. But we’re working on it.”

  “That must be driving you crazy,” Luke commented. “Spinning in neutral isn’t your virtue under the best of circumstances. And these are the worst.”

  “True,” Sloane acknowledged. “I’m having a hard time with this. Especially when I have to update Cynthia’s mother. The poor woman just wants news about her daughter. And I have nothing to offer.”

  “Now, that’s not true,” Luke countered. “I’ve seen you deal with people—even when the circumstances are more horrible and less hopeful than these. You have a way of getting through to them like no one else can.”

  “Thank you,” Sloane replied with simple gratitude. “I hope you’re right.”

  “He is,” Derek affirmed curtly. “It’s what made you such an incredible hostage negotiator, and an excep
tional agent. And it’s why your leaving was such a huge loss to the Bureau.”

  Sloane started, glancing up at Derek and blinking in surprise. He wasn’t one to dole out compliments. And he sure as hell didn’t want to open up this particular Pandora’s box in public. So where was this coming from?

  “Turning in her badge was a huge loss to Sloane as well.” Poor Luke was walking straight into the minefield, unaware of the detonator he was about to step on. “You were still in Cleveland at the time, so you and your team probably didn’t realize how torn up she was.”

  “Three surgeries and continuing physical therapy. Yes, I heard.”

  “I wasn’t referring to her hand,” Luke clarified. “Although she coped with enormous amounts of pain, and rarely uttered a complaint. No, what I was referring to was her life. She loved being an FBI agent. And suddenly her career was yanked out from under her. Starting over is never easy. But she pulled it off. She’s got a will of iron.”

  “That I knew.” Derek’s tone was conversational, but his jaw was clenched so tight, Sloane wondered if it might snap. “Just as I knew about her reluctance to turn in her badge. What I didn’t know was that you two were such close friends.”

  Internally, Sloane winced. She could actually feel Derek’s surging testosterone, manifesting itself in primal male possessiveness. Not only was it totally unnecessary, but it was embarrassing and infuriating.

  It was Elliot who came to her rescue. “It was easier for Sloane and me to stay such good friends. I have tons of her high school secrets stored away up here.” He tapped his head. “If all else fails, I can resort to blackmail.” He gave Sloane an affectionate hug. “So far, I haven’t needed to. She’s one hell of a friend.”

  “I agree.” Luke’s gaze flickered from Elliot to Derek. Clearly, he was groping for a way to clarify his friendship with Sloane, even as he struggled to get a handle on what the relationship was between her and Derek.

  In the end, he opted to try forging a kinship with Derek. “Sloane mentioned that before you joined the FBI, you were an Army Ranger.”