Face of Death

“He finished the pattern. That is why he looked so pleased with himself as he died.”

It had been playing on her mind since the moment she shot him. She had expected despair, not just at his impending death but also at his failure. For the killer, the pattern had been everything. He would not have been happy to leave it incomplete.

He had been laughing because, to him, the whole thing really was funny. The pattern was complete, and he himself was a part of it. Now, in a flash of inspiration as the fog of pain and shock from her confrontation cleared, she understood what that meant. He would not have been happy to die if he had not finished everything—including the last point on the spiral.

How had she not realized it sooner? Cursing blood loss and the emotional reeling from killing a man, Zoe knew that action was needed—and now.

“He took Aisha Sparks somewhere,” Zoe asserted. “He set her up somewhere to die. And I know where.”

“The last point of the spiral,” Shelley said. She might not have been able to see the patterns like Zoe could, but she wasn’t dumb. She understood the concept. “You think he set something up so that she will die tomorrow night.”

“He must have known that we were getting closer. We were almost upon him at the fair, and he was seen by the patrolman—he must have known there was a good chance that he would not make it through this night.”

“Only one more death needed to complete the pattern. So you think she is already there?”

Zoe nodded. “We have to search it. Gather a team from the state troopers and call the sheriff to send men. I will go to program the GPS.”

Shelley hesitated, glancing at Zoe’s arm. “I’m driving.”

Zoe rolled her eyes. An easy concession to make if it meant that they would get on the road. “Fine.”

She waited in the passenger’s seat with restless energy. The girl would be there. The maps, which Zoe had photographed with her cell so that they would always be able to check them on the move, indicated a new area for the final point of the spiral. With their new, more precise logarithm, it had been narrowed down significantly. It was a small area: a road, two houses on either side of it—each of them offering only their front rooms, with the back of the houses and their gardens out of the correct zone—and a small portion of a railway line.

It was precise, but it would still need searching. If she needed someone to die, where would she put them? Out of sight, certainly. A basement or an attic. Somewhere that they wouldn’t be found, much less suspected.

Shelley swung into the driver’s seat, still signaling with her hands to a group of men who were, in turn, dashing to patrol cars. She started up the engine, looking at Zoe.

“What are we looking for, do you think?” Shelley asked, moving the car away from the diner, taking it slow as she dodged people coming to and from official vehicles.

“I know as much as you,” Zoe sighed. “No special powers on this one, I am afraid. He needs her to die tomorrow, so we have at least until dawn.”

“Not after nightfall?”

Zoe shrugged, feeling a dull throb in her arm as she did so. “We know only that he attacked after dark to avoid raising suspicion. Maybe it was never about the time of day. Maybe it was. I do not know for sure, and we cannot ask him.”

Shelley sped up as they pulled away from the scene, and Zoe grabbed hold of the seatbelt, forcing it away from her neck. She fought down a wave of nausea. Car sickness was even stronger, it seemed, when you had lost enough blood to warrant a hospital visit.

“How are you doing, about that?” Shelley asked. Her eyes flicked between the rearview and side mirrors and the road, checking that the rest of their small team were keeping up.

“About what?”

“Killing a man,” Shelley said plainly, then bit her lip. “I’ve never had to fire my gun yet. You’ve done it twice in the last two days.”

Zoe sighed again, shutting her eyes momentarily. The motion was no less sickening without being able to tell where she was going. “I am fine. For the moment. Later, I am sure that one of the Bureau’s appointed psychologists will tell me how fine I am not.”

Shelley laughed at that, a kind of strangled, guilty noise. “You shouldn’t joke about that.”

“Who said it was a joke?”

Shelley smiled, settling back into her seat a little. Zoe saw her hands relax on the wheel, going from a stiff and straight position to a more casual crook in her elbows. “Still a few hours until dawn. We have a good chance.”

A good chance, except for the fact that they would be searching in the dark. Zoe knew that the percentage of success went down in such a situation. Vital clues could be missed. Still, she did not want to air such pessimism. “We have to find not just a hiding place, but a method of murder. We have to be careful. No blundering around. He may have set up a trap which will kill her when she is found.”

Shelley made a sympathetic noise. “I hope not. Poor doll must be terrified. She’s only a teenager.”