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  She finished reading her New Agents in Training's scores on their critical incident projects and nodded with satisfaction. They'd done as good as she'd hoped. Even Santos, the diffident, intense twenty-six year old with a background in particle physics, had managed to integrate himself as part of the team. Caitlyn shut the lid to her laptop and looked up at her visitor, half expecting to see Santos himself.

  Instead, it was one of the lab geeks—ah, man, she knew his name, he worked in DNA. Not Rogers, no, something close though. She smiled, keeping her face blandly genial as she forced her brain along its circuitous route to match the face of the man before her with his name.

  Finally, it clicked—but it took at least twice as long as it would have two years ago, before her accident. Something she'd never admit to anyone.

  "Hi, Clemens," she said heartily, gesturing the tech to one of the two wooden chairs beside her overflowing bookcase. "What brings you over here to Jefferson? Teaching a class?"

  He shook his head. "Thought it would be easier than asking you to make the trip to the lab building." He was right, the forensic analysis center had more security than Fort Knox. Even FBI staff like Caitlyn needed a special invite and authorization for a pass to enter. Clemens glanced at the open door and shifted his weight in his chair.

  She might not be as good with names as she used to be, but Caitlyn was still a pro when it came to nonverbal communication. She rose to her feet, folded her reading glasses and nonchalantly closed the door as she crossed over to sit beside him.

  "What's up?" she asked, leaning forward and engaging him in direct eye contact.

  He fumbled a file folder from his briefcase. It wasn't marked "top secret" or even "sensitive" so she wondered what all the cloak and dagger was about. Then she saw the name on the file. Damian Wright.

  Her first assignment two years ago after she'd returned to work. She'd hated everything about that case: the crimes, the travel, the blinding migraines that blurred her thoughts and almost crippled her with their unrelenting pain and nausea, and most of all her fatuous asshole of a boss, Special Agent in Charge Jack Logan. Logan had swooped in and taken over the case from her, without any warnings or explanations.

  "You know Wright's dead?" she asked the lab tech. "Executed in Texas." She glanced at the calendar. "Two weeks ago."

  "I know." Clemens' voice was mournful. "I'm sorry."

  Caitlyn's spine went rigid. Bright flashes of light sparked at the periphery of her vision. "Sorry? You can't be saying you found anything exculpatory?"

  Like most LEO's she felt that death was too good for a lot of these sickos—but it was the best punishment they had. That didn't mean that she, like other law enforcement officers, didn't also live in fear of putting an innocent man on death row.

  Which was why she'd reviewed the Texas evidence against Wright herself, even though by that time she was off the case. It had been rock solid. Not only had he been caught with the still warm body of his last victim, butchering the boy, but Wright confessed to everything, refused to allow any appeals on his behalf and became the first person under Texas' new law to be fast-tracked to execution. Twenty-one months from arrest to death, a new record.

  Clemens shook his head. "No, Wright killed those boys in Texas, Vermont, Tennessee, and Oklahoma." He paused. Caitlyn took a deep breath, forcing the flashing lights to fade into the distance. "It's that one in New York I'm not too sure about."

  "Hopewell, New York. Josh Durandt and his father." Caitlyn remembered. The crime scene had been halfway up a mountain and she'd been wearing a skirt after being whisked away from a memorial service for the Vermont boy. Logan had laughed, giving her no time to change into more appropriate attire and cutting her no slack when her migraine had made her sick during the drive down. He'd joked after she puked her guts out on the side of the road, asked her if she was pregnant, adding that was the problem with "today's FBI." He never had to worry about any of the guys letting him down because they went "hormonal" on him.

  "See, I was clearing the backlog and I found these samples in the pile to be disposed of," Clemens said, his tone hesitant as he shifted in his seat, obviously having second thoughts. "You know the new director’s protocols. All evidence reviewed prior to disposal, even in closed cases. Turns out the results from Hopewell were never recorded. Not anywhere. Case like that, they should have been top priority. Instead they were almost trashed. If it wasn’t for the new rules—"

  "What do you have?" she asked, sliding the folder from his hand and spreading it open on her lap. The familiar dark lines of a DNA analysis filled the first page.

  "The DNA from the Hopewell crime scene, it wasn't Wright's."

  "There were two blood types found, right? The dad's and one other. We assumed it was Wright's since the field kit said it was his type and we had his prints on the memory card found there."

  "Yeah, it was his print and the card came from his camera. Wright's reflection can be seen in some of the photos. He definitely took them."

  "Who was at the crime scene with him? Are you saying he had an accomplice? There was no evidence of that at any of the other scenes." She ran her hand through her shoulder length hair, absently rubbing at the puckered skin above her right ear. Her hair hadn't even grown out when she was in Hopewell. Back then it had been so short, it barely covered the surgical scar.

  Clemens blew his breath out. "That's where it gets a bit weird."

  Caitlyn straightened. It never boded well when a lab geek called evidence weird. "How weird?"

  "Conspiracy theory, cover-up, Area 51, political and career suicide kind of weird." He grimaced. "I've gone over everything a dozen times. The data is correct. It's the facts surrounding it that are wrong."

  "You mean my facts, my investigation?"

  He looked down at his scuffed Adidas and nodded. "Yeah." He looked up again, pushed his hair back when it fell across his forehead. "Well, yours and Special Agent in Charge Logan's. He was the agent of record. His name was on all the paperwork. But since he's retired, I thought I better come to you." He gave her a hesitant smile. "Maybe you could tell me what to do with it."

  Caitlyn stared past him, through her small window that looked out over the expanse of forest that was home to the Yellow Brick Road, the academy's famed obstacle course. Sunlight streamed in, almost bringing her headache back. She'd always suspected Logan of hiding something. He'd hustled her off the Wright case as fast as he could, claiming she was needed to help with the Katrina cleanup efforts. She'd spent weeks working with the National Center for Missing and Exploited Children, identifying over 4800 kids and re-uniting them with their families. An area more suited to a woman's talents, in Logan's words.

  She turned to Clemens. "Tell me everything."

  CHAPTER 3

  September 6, 2005: Hopewell, NY

  Dear Sam,

  The news is filled with death and destruction. The search for you has pretty much ended as all eyes turn south to Katrina's destruction and chaos. All eyes except mine, of course.

  The Colonel's wife still comes every day. She says talking about you, keeping this journal is the best way for me to heal, to understand that our Lord has a plan beyond my mortal comprehension and that I must let go of you and Josh and accept that you are in a better place and soldier on.

  Today for the first time, I spoke to her. I told her the truth about how I felt. I told her that she and her good Lord could go to Hell.

  The Colonel hustled her out faster than a lightning bolt, her still sputtering about how I should respect her as my stepmother if not as a Christian woman.

  Sometimes I swear the Colonel only married her after Mom died because she bakes the best caramel apple pie in the county and knows how to make a bed with hospital corners. Honestly, I know they've been together now for four years, but what the hell was he thinking? Don't say it—I can almost hear you humming that stupid song you wrote about her, Requiem for the Morally Superior and Personality Challenged. Anyway, she's out of my hair and m
y house, so more's the better.

  Dr. Hedeger says pretty much the same thing as the Colonel's wife, only he feeds me Xanax with his tepid platitudes. He frowns when he sees the lack of sleep in my eyes, my hair stiff and needing to be washed. Tells me to listen to the Colonel's wife, that letting my grief and anger out is the best way to "defuse my trauma".

  Defuse. As if I'm a ticking bomb ready to explode at the slightest jar or rustle. Tick, tick...boom!

  He's right about one thing. That's exactly how I feel. Relentless, a constant coil of incendiary fury curled inside me like a viper ready to strike. Surrounded by a hard lead dead numb casing.

  If ever I do blow, the explosion will have nowhere to go except to ricochet between my ribs, finishing the job of shredding my heart to pieces.

  So, that's basically how I am. How's everything there? Are you keeping an eye on Josh? I know you are—hell, even Damian Wright knew that. I guess that's why he followed you into the woods. He knew he'd never get a better chance to catch you by surprise and get Josh.

  Did I tell you the police found one of his camera cards? While I was sitting in Albany with a bunch of other teachers, being preached to about "no child left behind," that monster was spying on Josh. The card is filled with picture after picture of you and Josh at the park, you two walking home, even a glimpse of Josh and you wrestling on the living room floor. Oh there are other little boys he'd spied on, but they quickly give way to focus solely on Josh.

  Our beautiful little boy. I'm not blaming you. The police said from the amount of blood they found on the trail that you put up quite a fight. Heroic, Chief Waverly called it.

  They found some blood that must have belonged to Damian as well, it was A positive and you're B negative. As long as it wasn't Josh's blood, I was happy—what a stupid thing to think! But at the time I could only grasp at straws, was hanging onto any thread of hope I could find.

  I'm so damned angry—that I wasn't here, as if I could have somehow stopped what happened—angry at the stupid government wasting time and money on a stupid law with a catchy name that has condemned our children to a level of mediocracy—sorry, you've heard that rant before, haven't you?

  Mostly I'm angry at God—how could he have allowed this to happen? To those two boys in Vermont? To the other one they found in Tennessee after they lost Damian here.

  Then the woman from the FBI—you would have laughed at her, butch hair cut, badly fitting skirt, clunky shoes, hand always on her hip as if she couldn't decide if she was a woman or one of the boys—she told me, in her blunt, you-told-me-not-to-sugar-coat-anything way that Damian' signature was to snatch and grab his prey. That he killed them quickly, brutally, with his bare hands (she said it makes him feel like God, using his hands, feeling his flesh against theirs while they die—how the hell can she know that?). Oh yeah, she says, as if this will ease my mind, don't worry, he doesn't actually molest them until after they're dead. Then he can take his time, take them with him, find someplace with peace and quiet.

  That's when Hal Waverly came in and shut her up. Thank God 'cause I was ready to do some serious damage to her myself. Hal took me by the shoulders and steered me out to his squad, found me something hot to drink that stopped my teeth from chattering. Then he told me about the blood in the clearing off the trail. About finding Josh's Tigger, ripped to pieces. That they'd called off the search because of the hurricane arriving. That once the weather cleared, they'd get the cadaver dogs out there.

  Last week. Seems like another life. The search and rescue and cadaver dogs from Saranac are all down in Mississippi and New Orleans now. The FBI has come and gone but the crime scene tape still blocks the room at the Locust Inn down in Merrill where Damian Wright stayed. They just missed him in Tennessee, the news said—hot on the trail of a killer.

  If I was Damian, I'd head down to Texas, blend in with the refugees there, get lost in the crowd. I wonder if the police have thought of that, if they're looking for him there? Seems like he was headed south. The mom in Tennessee at least has a body to bury—a pair of hunters interrupted Damian before he could finish hiding that boy. Nelson was his name. Cute kid from the photo in the papers. Black curls, big dark eyes, wide grin.

  Just like you and Josh. I know Josh must be with you—he has to be, that hope is the only thing keeping me sane. Knowing that you two are together.

  I will find you. Soon. I promise. Maybe the rain will wash you free—if Damian didn't bury you too deep. But then the animals—I can't stop thinking about what they might be doing, teeth and claws. The pictures going through my mind are almost as bad as the thought of what Damian did to Josh after he finished with you....

  Sorry, I'm back now. Sometimes I just have to go shut myself in the bathroom, all the faucets running as hard as they can go and I scream and scream until my voice has run out and the room is filled with steam and I imagine you're there in the mirror and Josh is sleeping just beyond the closed door. I hold my breath until the fog clears and it becomes all too obvious to anyone sane that I'm alone. Alone with my thoughts and fears and anger and despair—I miss you both so much that I can't even imagine words equal to the task.

  Hal Waverly's been a rock. Course, as Chief of Police he's seen bad things before—and he's lost someone himself so he understands better than anyone. He keeps to himself, kind of hovers in the background, checks on me between calls, making sure there's food in the house, that I don't wear the same clothes three days running. Most of all, he doesn't judge me when I need to escape—usually out into the rain and fog that's trying to drown us out this past week.

  Everyone else puckers their lips, wondering if I'm gone round the bend—or if that ticking time bomb has finally exploded. Not Hal.

  I hate to admit it but even the Colonel's wife has been a help—in her own way. She shoos everyone away, cleans the house and sends me to bed after a hot bath and cup of her herbal tea that tastes like a grandmother's hug, all warmth and cinnamon. I keep kicking her out, but she sees me as her project—as if she's the only one who can redeem me. Hate to tell her it's a waste of time.

  My brain feels fuzzy—the Colonel must have slipped more Xanax into my tea. Or maybe Prozac. Or both. He hovers over me like fog on the mountain. They're all watching me—the Colonel, his wife, Hal Waverly, Dr. Hedeger, everyone from school. It's as if the whole town is holding its breath, waiting for me to explode—tick, tick, boom.

  They think I'll kill myself or at least hurt myself. But I could never do that—not until I find you.

  Then, we'll see. I can't imagine past that.

  For now, hold Josh tight, tell him not to be scared, tell him mommy loves him soooo much. Tell him I'll find you. I will find you both. Somehow, someway, someday.

  I love you. God how I love you—why couldn't I have been here? Why couldn't it have been me?

  I sleep with the curtains open so I can see the mountain above the fog. It makes me feel like you're watching over me from somewhere up there in the darkness. And if I leave the light on, maybe then you and Josh can find your way home.........

  CHAPTER 4

  Wednesday, June 19, 2007: Hopewell, New York

  Sarah stepped off her porch, the screen door banging behind her, startling a flock of starlings from their perch along the roof gutter. The sun was already high enough to be peaking over the rim of Snakehead Mountain's neighbor to the east. Bright ribbons of light shredded the fog that nightly crowded the mountainside. All that remained were small swirls of floating cotton-candy mist that vanished with her every movement.

  She smiled and hummed as she skimmed along the grass, gathering dew around the sides of her hiking boots and along the hems of her jeans. "It ain't morning till the coffee's brewing, and it ain't coffee unless it's Ewing's," she sang one of Sam's attempts to break into the commercial jingle market.

  It was still chilly enough that she wore a fleece jacket over her tank top, but the clear sky guaranteed mild weather. She reached the lane and followed it downhill to where it intersec
ted with Lake Road, which ran down to the reservoir and the dam. Her house perched above the rest of town, nestled in a curve of the mountain's lower ridgeline. In the summer it was hidden among the shade of maples, oaks, and beech trees. In the winter it offered spectacular views across the valley from the front and a glimpse of the Lower Falls from the back porch. Not to mention the deer, fox, and occasional bear meandering past.

  Searching for signs of scat or tracks, Sarah scanned the hard-packed dirt road. It was a habit drilled into her by the Colonel from when she was a child and learning to hunt. How many times had she and Josh stopped to gleefully poke apart mounds of seedy excrement while Sam stood by, a bemused smile crinkling his face?

  She yanked her head up, forced her feet to continue their journey without her peering down at the road. Instead, she blinked into the sun filtering through freshly emerged leaves. Beyond her, a raven caught an updraft, sailing into the sky over the gorge.

  There were only a few houses here on the outskirts of town. Hal Waverly was Sarah's closest neighbor, almost a mile away up a gravel track that curved around the eastern side of Snakehead, past the reservoir. Hal's house perched on the very edge of the gorge, with head-on views of the Lower Falls. Lily, his wife, had been the county hydrologist and loved living in a house constantly filled with the sound of rushing water.

  Sarah passed the road leading to Hal's house, a chill overtaking her as tall hemlocks blocked out the sun. She kept heading toward town, reaching Main Street a half-mile farther down the mountain.

  Main Street dead-ended at Lake Road. The Village of Hopewell had been painstakingly carved out of a plateau above a shallow section of the Snakehead River gorge. Originally it had been home to a Mohawk settlement, then French Canadian trappers, followed by loggers and a handful of hearty homesteaders. After the dam had been built by the CCC in the 30's, the town finally had room to breathe, expanding down into the basin the river left behind, growing from an unincorporated hamlet into a full-fledged village of almost five hundred souls. It still didn't show up on many maps, but the people of Hopewell took that as a badge of honor. Kept most the tourists out, unlike nearby Saranac or Lake Placid.