CHAPTER THIRTY ONE

The road dead-ended at a dilapidated cottage that looked like it"d been shat out the back end of the sixties. Mold furred the clapboards; the roof sagged like a hammock for elephants. A single sputtering bulb illuminated the porch, moth-swarmed and flickering.

Ella nosed the car into a weed-choked rut and killed the engine. Crickets buzzed; something hooted mournfully in the trees. The air smelled green and fecund, thick enough to choke on.

Luca pulled up a heartbeat later. Ella checked her Glock, jumped out of the car then summoned Luca behind a bush.

‘Hawkins,' she whispered. ‘Riley Sawyer is the person who made the water clock in town. That's our killer's signature. He's drowning his vics inside a much larger version.'

‘That's a reach, Ella. How do you know? He might just be drowning them in a bath.'

‘Because it connects too well. And Riley Sawyer – the man in that house – made that little water clock in town. If he made one, he could make another.'

‘You sure about this? Maybe we should call for backup, get Tucker"s boys in on this party.'

‘No. More people means more attention. We can't give Riley the chance to split.'

Luca conceded the point with a nod. He checked his piece with quick movement. ‘Alright then, lead the way.'

They slunk towards the shack at the end of the lane like cats on the prowl. Ella was fueled by an IV drip of pure adrenaline. The night pressed in close, hot and heavy as a lover"s breath. She licked salt from her upper lip and tried to slow her thundering pulse. No dice. This was the part that got her blood singing. The wire-walk between justice and mayhem.

As they neared, something tickled Ella"s brain. She hissed at Luca. ‘Hawkins, you get a snap of this Riley Sawyer character? Anything from the archives to give us a heads up on what we"re walking into here?'

Luca shook his head. ‘Nada. No priors, no mug shot, not even a driver"s license on file. Our mystery man"s a freakin" ghost.'

‘Fabulous.' Ella checked her watch and swore under her breath. Nearly 11PM. Their unsub, if he stuck to pattern, would be picking his next target within the hour. Another lamb for the slaughter, tethered by concrete shoes at the bottom of that infernal clock.

No way was she letting that happen. Not on her watch.

‘Doesn"t matter,' she muttered. ‘I know a serial killer when I see one. And I got a feeling our psycho pal"s right behind that door.'

They crept up the sagging porch steps, avoiding the rotted boards that looked like they"d give up the ghost under a stiff breeze. The shack was little more than a lean-to, really, slapped together from bits of tin and prayers. One strong huff and a puff would blow it over. But Ella knew better than to judge a book by its dilapidated cover. Some of the worst monsters wore the most unassuming meat suits.

She exchanged a glance and a nod with Luca. He took up position on the other side of the door, hand hovering over his holster. Ella sucked in a breath, released it slow. Her fingers flexed once, twice, a tell she"d never quite shaken. Beneath the cool mask of professional detachment, a dark thrill shivered up her spine. This was her drug of choice – the acrid tang of fear-sweat on another predator"s trail.

She raised her fist and pounded on the door.

Silence. Then, the unmistakable snick of a lock turning. Ella"s muscles tensed, ready to spring into action. Luca"s hand dropped to his gun.

The door swung open with an agonized creak. Ella braced for impact, for a blur of movement as their unsub tried to make a break for it.

What she got instead stopped her dead in her tracks.

On the threshold stood a stooped little old lady. White-haired, rosy-cheeked, buried in a floral housecoat that looked older than sin. She peered up at them through thick spectacles with a polite smile creasing her face like a dry riverbed.

Ella blinked. Shook her head as if to clear it. This had to be a joke. A mistake. A batty granny pulled to the party by a cop"s shaky scrawl. A mother, maybe. Hell, a sister. Anyone but the artist known as Riley Sawyer.

She opened her mouth, but the words stuck in her craw like a wad of day-old gum. ‘Uh, hello. We"re looking for Riley Sawyer?'

The old woman's smile widened. Dentures flashed white as bleached bones. ‘Well, you found her, sugar. Riley Sawyer, in the flesh. What can I do for you folks?'

No. No goddamned way. There had to be a hidden camera somewhere. A gaggle of deputies snickering in the bushes. Candid Camera on crack.

But as Ella stared into those watery blue eyes, she saw nothing but earnest helpfulness. This wasn"t some twisted joke. This was real. This sweet, doddering old thing was their mastermind, their Hieronymus Bosch with a hard-on for hydrology?

It didn"t compute. Ella"s gut sank like a mobster"s stool pigeon, her case collapsing like a sandcastle at high tide. No way was Grandma Moses here was muscling grown men into concrete and throwing them down a giant water torture device. The sheer logistics boggled the mind.

She caught Luca"s eye and shook her head imperceptibly. He looked as poleaxed as she felt, but covered it with his usual aw-shucks grin. Kid was quick; had to give him that.

Ella cleared her throat. ‘Ah, yes, Ms. Sawyer. I"m Special Agent Dark. This is my partner, Agent Hawkins. I understand you, ah, designed the town"s water clock?'

The old dame"s face crinkled in a geriatric approximation of delight. ‘Sure did, sweetie. My finest work, if I do say so myself. An artiste"s gotta leave her mark, you know? A little something for the town to remember ol" Riley by.'

Luca stepped forward, using every inch of that leading-man charm. ‘Ms. Sawyer, would you mind if we stepped inside? We just have a few questions about this marvelous clock of yours.'

Riley all but glowed. ‘Why of course, honey! Come right on in. I know it's late, but I"ll put on a pot of coffee. It"s so rare I get visitors, "specially such handsome ones.'

Every nerve of Ella's howled that this was a dead end. A waste of time she didn't have. But what was the alternative? There were no other leads to chase, and if Ms. Daisy here wasn"t their unsub, she might know something about the water clock that could lead Ella to the real killer.

So against every cop instinct screaming in her skull, Ella followed Riley and Luca into the musty gloom.

Tick tock. The countdown churned on. And somewhere out there, a real monster was trolling for fresh meat to feed his machine.