CHAPTER THIRTY

Ella skidded into the dried-up backside of Liberty Grove's town square. She ditched the car and made the rest of the journey on foot, each step bringing her closer to that damn water clock. The night air was thick as molasses, heavy with the promise of rain that never came. Just another broken promise in a town full of them.

Her lungs burned, muscles screaming in protest, but Ella pushed on. She"d run herself into the ground if that"s what it took to crack this case. The faces of the victims flashed through her mind with each pounding step. Toledo. Ayers. Clancy. Dead men walking, right up until the moment they weren"t walking anymore.

The square loomed ahead, a sorry excuse for a public gathering spot if there ever was one. Scraggly trees and patchy grass surrounded the clock like mourners at a funeral. Streetlights flickered weakly, as if even they couldn"t be bothered to shine in this godforsaken town.

And there it was, the star of the show – that monstrosity of metal and gears, ticking away the minutes of a dying town. It stood in the center of the square like some alien artifact, with its gleaming brass and intricate machinery. In better times, it might"ve been impressive. Now, it just looked like a middle finger to a place that couldn"t even keep its taps running.

Somewhere to her left, the busker stirred in his sleep. He jolted awake when he sensed the presence of another soul. Ella guessed the poor guy didn't have a home to go to. Or maybe sleeping here was preferable to his domestic life. Both thoughts were terrifying.

‘You again,' Clyde breathed. ‘Back for an encore?'

Ella ignored him, laser-focused on the clock. She circled it slowly, keen eyes dragging over every inch of pitted metal and scummy glass. Some cop"s mind instinct itched at the base of her skull, screaming that the answer was here. This overgrown sideshow attraction was the key to everything – killer, victims, the whole ball of wax. She just had to find it.

The clock was a marvel of engineering, she had to admit. A goddamn work of art. Gears meshed together in an intricate dance, pipes and valves snaking around like metal vines.

But art didn"t explain the bodies piling up like clockwork.

The basins squatted empty, dry enough to spit cotton. No water gurgling between levels, no gears grinding their teeth to the beat of passing hours.

And there, at the bottom of the final tank, something glimmered wetly. A drop of moisture in this desert at the end of the world. Ella leaned in, every nerve howling like they"d been dipped in battery acid. Her hand snaked out; poked the oily smear. Came away damp and chill.

She raised glistening fingers and sniffed.

Inside Ella"s skull, synapses crackled like downed power lines. Neurons fired faster than a junkie with the shakes. And shining bright as a supernova through the mental shitstorm, a single word:

Signature.

Every serial killer had one. An element of the crime that didn't need to be present but was.

And if you figured out the signature, you could figure out the person behind it.

From deep in the morass of memory, a hundred half-forgotten historical cases bubbled to the surface.

Smearer, "87. Taxidermist who posed vics like hunting trophies; used his embalming kit for the wet work.

Choker, "92. Garroted streetwalkers with piano wire kept their vocal cords as sick souvenirs, buried beneath the family Steinway.

Scrapbook, "98. Soccer mom by day, scrapbooking psycho by night; pasted her victim"s obituaries into an album, annotated with cutesy stickers and sparkly gel pen.

Every one of those psychopaths had a signature. A calling card. Some crucial piece of themselves they just couldn"t help weaving into their twisted games.

And here she was, staring this unsub's signature right in the face.

The killer was drowning his victims in a giant water clock.

That's why the perfect timing. That's why the strange smell – because this killer is reusing the same water every time. Water that had squeezed the life out of three people, and judging by the midnight hour closing in, soon to be a fourth.

Ella"s molars ground together like tectonic plates, the pressure in her skull mounting to migraine levels. This hunk of junk was the linchpin, the masterstroke in a symphony of murder. But how did it help her find her unsub?

She whirled on Clyde, advancing on him like a thunderhead rolling in. ‘Clyde, you said you knew everything about this clock.'

‘I do,' the busker said.'

‘Who made it?'

Clyde"s tongue darted out. ‘Uh, well, I don't know the person myself, but I know of ‘em.'

‘I don't care if they're on your Christmas list. I need a name.'

‘Lemme see... Sawyer. Yeah, that"s it. Riley Sawyer. Local artiste, fancied themselves some kinda deep thinker. All about the "hidden meanings" and such. I don't really-'

"Riley Sawyer." Ella interrupted. She rolled the name around her mouth, tasting its shape. "This Sawyer character. Are they still breathing? More importantly, they live nearby?"

Clyde scratched at his scraggly beard. ‘Yeah, yeah, I reckon so. Got a little place up on Hangman"s Hill, last I heard. One of them commune shacks from the hippie days.'

Hangman"s Hill. Sounded about as inviting as a proctology exam with a cactus. But if Riley Sawyer was there, so was Ella. With bells on and an arrest warrant in hand.

‘Much obliged, Clyde. You might"ve just helped catch a killer. Drinks are on me if I make it outta this alive.'

Ella rushed back to her car, pulled out her phone and punched Luca's number with fingers that itched to be wrapped around a killer's throat instead. The line rang once, twice, three times.

‘Come on, rookie,' she growled, ‘pick up the damn-‘

‘Hawkins,' Luca's voice came through.

‘I got a name. Riley Sawyer. Lives up on Hangman"s Hill. I need an exact address, and I need it five minutes ago.'

The sound of furious typing filled the line. ‘Hangman's Hill. Who names these places?'

‘Less commentary, more address-finding.'

‘Got it,' Luca said. ‘Riley Sawyer, lives at 13 Gallows Road. Ten minutes from the town square if you obey traffic laws.'

‘So three minutes away. How far from the precinct?'

‘Two miles. Why? Who is this Riley Sawyer person?'

‘Meet me there. I'll fill you in when we get there.'

‘On it,' Luca said. ‘See you in five.'

‘Gear up. We might be about to come face to face with our water-happy friend. And something tells me they"re not going to come quietly.'

Ella ended the call, tossing the phone aside as she focused on the road ahead. Hangman's Hill was on the horizon. The perfect place for a killer to hole up, she thought. Isolated, defensible, with a name that"d make even the bravest meter reader think twice about knocking.

She'd had about enough of this dried-up town. It was time to bring this case home.