CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN

"Look straight ahead for me, please."

Faith complied. And, of course, the paramedic immediately shone a blinding white light into her eyes. She grimaced and squinted, and he repeated calmly, "Look straight ahead for me, please."

"I'm doing my best," she growled, "I would just like to retain my ability to see, so maybe don't blind me the moment I look where you tell me to."

The paramedic had no doubt handled hundreds of uncooperative patients before. He took Faith's snappishness with the patience of a saint. "I know, I'm sorry. We just need to make sure you're not concussed."

"I'm not concussed."

"I know. I just need to make sure."

Faith frowned. The other option was to go to the hospital and get an EEG. She didn't want to end up shanghaied into an overnight stay, so she forced herself to cooperate. After a moment, the paramedic nodded and switched off his light.

"You're fine," he said. "Bruised up, and you have a nasty cut on your right hand that I'll need to disinfect and bandage, but I can do that right here. You'll be happy to know you don't have to go to the big scary hospital."

Faith glared at him. "Has anyone told you that you have crappy bedside manner."

"Almost everyone," he replied with a slight smile. He lifted his first aid kit to the stage and said, "Has anyone ever told you that you get grouchy when you're in pain?"

She chuckled in spite of her irritation. "Yeah, almost everyone."

"Well, that's a natural reaction, so it's nothing to be ashamed about."

"That was better," she said. "Keep it up, and you'll get your five-star review."

He chuckled and cleaned her hand with iodine, soaking up the disinfectant with the gauze. "Your K9 is fine too. He doesn't appear to have been injured. Tough dog, especially for an older K9."

Faith felt a pang at that. She looked over at Turk who sat next to her, watching her closely. He didn't look old to her. He seemed like a puppy. She couldn't believe he'd have to retire in three weeks.

She put that worry aside for a more immediate one. She looked over to the gurney a few yards away. The black-haired woman was strapped to the gurney, talking to Michael, who stood over her with his hand on her shoulder. "How's the victim?" she asked.

"She definitely has a concussion," the paramedic said, wrapping her hand carefully. "She was hit really good in the head a couple of times. We're a little worried about a brain-bleed, but if she has one it's not bad yet. Worst-case scenario, she has a minor surgery to manage the swelling. But the short answer is that she'll be okay." He glanced her way. "Physically, anyway."

"And the killer?"

The paramedic's eyes hardened. "Dead," he said. "Where he belongs."

Faith nodded. She couldn't help but agree. The paramedic taped her bandage closed and said, "All right. You're all set. Are you the kind of person who's going to bite my head off if I tell you to take it easy for a week?" She glared at him, and he chuckled. "Well, then I won't say it. Have a good evening, Special Agent."

He walked away and helped his partner get the victim transported out of the theater. Faith looked over at the other gurney. A white sheet was draped over the body of the killer. The paramedics assigned to him were taking their time wheeling him out of here, an unconscious show of disrespect to a man who deserved none.

Turk nudged her, and Faith stroked his fur and smiled at him. "Good job, Turk. We did it. We saved her. We caught the bad guy."

Michael walked over and sat next to Faith. "How are you feeling?" he asked.

"Right as rain," she replied. She chuckled. "I haven't said that in a while."

"I assumed you grew out of it," Michael said. "It's nice to hear it again. Maybe I should come up with a catchphrase."

"Be my guest." She looked back to see the killer finally being wheeled from the theater.

"We don't have an ID for him yet," Michael said. "He didn't have a wallet, and there was no paperwork in the van out front. The would-be victim is Lana Argyle, twenty-eight years old. She's an app developer. I guess she was working overtime on a new video game that she described as something called weeaboo bait. I have no idea what that means."

"Me either," Faith said. "She should ask for a raise after this."

"She has informed me that it's her intention to quit in dramatic fashion."

"Good for her."

"Hope so. I don't know if I'd throw away a source of steady income before finding another job, but I also don't work… wait… I do work overtime."

"If you ever quit in dramatic fashion, you have to tell me so I can watch it."

"I'll send a mass email to the whole field office," Michael assured her. "Everyone can see me truly give the Boss what for."

She chuckled at that and looked around at the empty theater. "I guess we should leave too."

"I don't know, I was kind of hoping to catch the last act," Michael quipped.

She rolled her eyes and got to her feet. Her vision swam, and she stumbled. Michael quickly got to his feet and steadied her. "Are you all right?"

Her hands were strong around her shoulders. She felt a flush climb her cheeks, but when she looked at Michael, she remembered David and Ellie. That was the future. Whatever reminiscences she was having about Michael right now was the past.

"I'm good," she said. "Come on. Let's get out of here."

***

Detective Hilary lifted his glass and said, "To a life saved."

"To a life saved," Faith and Michael repeated.

They tilted their glasses back. The beer wasn't Faith's favorite—too sweet—but it was alcohol, and she figured if she drank enough of it, it would dull the aches and pains in her body and help her sleep on the plane ride home.

The four of them—Turk included—sat in a small conference room at the precinct. Their flight didn't depart until the evening, so they joined Hilary in celebrating the successful closure of their case.

Turk barked and lifted his head. Faith chuckled at him and reached down to ruffle his fur.

"Did you guys ID the murderer yet?" Michael asked.

Hilary nodded. "Edgar Finch. Forty-five years old. He was a chemist for Dillon Laboratories in Calumet. Quit his job a month ago. Apparently, he was dying of congestive heart failure. He was on the transplant list, but I guess he wanted to find another way."

"So was he always crazy or did he fall off the rails when he learned he was dying?" Michael asked.

Hilary shrugged. "Who knows? I used to wonder about the criminals I hunted. If they were always criminally inclined or if something happened to push them over the edge. Nature versus nurture, I guess. I don't wonder anymore. I guess I'm getting cynical in my old age, but the way I see it is that people are made up of choices. Some people might have a harder time making certain choices than other people, but if you're sane enough to hold down a job and pay your bills, then you're sane enough not to murder people."

"I get what you're saying," Michael said, "but he didn't just kill people. He followed a ritual. And he did it for a purpose too. He wasn't just enjoying the chance to kill people, he was trying hard to save his own life. Faith, you said he was begging for help at the end, right?"

The image of Edgar's hand extended toward her flashed across her mind. She sipped some more of her beer and nodded. "Yes."

"It seemed like he really believed this ritual would save him," Michael finished.

"Maybe," Hilary allowed. "But why was his life worth more than Lana Argyle's? Why was it worth more than Cassidy Holt or Samantha Reynard or Lorraine Hayes?" He shook his head. "No, he made the choice to kill them and put his life ahead of theirs. And I can't sympathize with that."

Michael nodded. "Yeah. You're right. I'm not arguing that anyone should sympathize with him. Hell, it's not like he's the only wacko I've ever seen either. Sometimes I just wonder how their heads work. The wackos, I mean. I just wish I knew which screws were loose in their heads so maybe we could figure out how to screw them back on before they turn into killers." He sipped his beer. "I guess we all feel that way every now and then."

Hilary nodded. "The worst part is that his transplant would have come in this week."

Faith lifted an eyebrow. "Really?"

"Really. I talked to his doctor earlier this morning. His transplant was scheduled to arrive in three days, and the surgery would have happened that evening. His doctor was adamant that if he had taken it easy and avoided stress, they would have been able to remove the defective heart, clean out all the excess fat and give him the transplant. Might not have given him an extra forty years, but the doctor was pretty sure he could make it fifteen. That's a lot better than what he got."

"Staring death in the face is hard," Faith said. "You think you have what it takes to meet your end with dignity, but when it's there, when it's real … it's hard."

She thought of Trammell's wicked smile. Let's see how you bleed, little girl.

She promised herself she wouldn't give him the satisfaction of screaming, but she had. She had screamed. She hadn't begged, but she had pleaded silently for the pain to end.

"Still not an excuse," Hilary said tersely.

"No," Faith agreed. "No, it isn't."

"What about Nina Verbeck?" Michael asked. "How did she manage to know exactly what to paint? Did she know Edgar?"

Hilary chuckled at that. "No, but she knew one of the crime scene photographers."

"Ah."

"Yeah. Kid took a few classes with her, and when she found out where he worked, she decided it would be fun to convince him to give her some crime scene photos. When we searched her house, we found a whole box of them. Murders, overdoses, accidental deaths… bunch of macabre stuff."

"How did she convince him to do that?" Faith asked.

"How do you think."

Michael made a face. Faith sighed. "See, that's what I can't understand. How do otherwise normal people glorify killers? How do sensible people look at someone like Edgar Finch or Franklin West or Jethro Trammell and admire them? I can understand pitying them to a point, but to admire them? To take joy in what they do?"

"Maybe it's just a milder form of the same mental illness," Michael suggested. "Nina glorifies violence. Not enough to kill people, maybe, but enough to seek it out. What's weird to me is that she didn't tell us that one of the CSIs took the photo."

"She told us," Hilary said, "on the advice of her lawyer. Once we showed up with the photographs, we had more than just mica powder. Photos of the dead victims are a little more serious, no offense to you guys."

"But why not tell us? Did she actually like the kid?"

"That I don't know. She told us that she hoped we wouldn't find the crime scene photos because she didn't think we'd believe her about the crime scene photographer."

"To be fair, we wouldn't have."

"Neither did we. If the kid hadn't confessed, she'd still be our number one suspect. Well, not now , but you know what I mean."

"How much time can she get for that?" Faith asked.

"Not much," Hilary said. "She'll get sacked from the university for sleeping with a student, but it's a much bigger crime to provide crime scene photos than it is to receive them."

"Even if she's soliciting them?"

"Who's soliciting? They were in a consensual adult relationship, and she mentioned how much she liked his work. He gave her some of her photographs and she took them, not understanding that it was illegal or intending to use it to harm anyone." Seeing Faith's look, he added, "I'm not saying I believe it. I'm saying that's what her lawyers will argue. No, she won't get time. Don't worry, though. It's unlikely she'll ever work in academia again. She'll have to hope this book does well for her."

"It will," Michael said. "Books like this always sell. A step below Nina Verbeck on the spectrum of sickness is people who consume the kind of stuff she creates. There'll be people who don't care about what she did to get her information. They just want to see blood."

"As long as they're not spilling blood, that's fine with me," Hilary said. "You want to be a sick fuck? Go ahead. Just don't make that anyone else's problem."

"Here, here," Faith said.

Turk barked agreement.

They finished their drinks and shook Hilary's hand, then left for the airport. They still had three hours until their flight, but they might as well spend that at the airport. Somehow, being there allowed Faith a sense of closure. They were in the process of leaving. The case was over. She could put this one in her past and move on from it.

But what was she moving back to? With Edgar Finch's reign of terror over, her thoughts returned to the mysterious killer that had murdered the electronics store clerk in even more garish fashion than Finch had murdered his victims.

This is your fault, Bold.

She didn't believe that a new Franklin West was out there prowling the streets, obsessed with breaking Faith's will.

Or was it only that she didn't want to believe?

She looked out the window of the airport shuttle. The sky was overcast, a flat gray that the residents of Chicago likely didn't notice anymore considering how many days a year enjoyed the same weather.

Somewhere under a different sky, another killer was plotting his or her next murder. Would they blame Faith for this one too?

Trammell's voice echoed with the words from her dream. I'll only show up with a new face and a new name.

And make no mistake. I will break you.