CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

With no leads to follow up on and closing on thirty-six hours with no sleep, the three agents returned to the hotel.

Michael, as always, had no trouble finding sleep. It was one of the qualities Faith most admired in him, the ability to shut his mind off when needed, no matter how desperate the situation. Faith wished she could rest like that.

In the Marine Corps, she had been able to sleep at the drop of a hat and wake just as quickly. That was crucial in an environment where action could occur at any moment, and one needed to be prepared for it. She had kept that skill for the first eight years of her FBI career. Then Trammell…

Then Trammell. It seemed like those were the most important words of her life. Then Trammell. She was able to relax, then Trammell. She was happy, then Trammell. She was confident, then Trammell. She was a great friend, then Trammell.

She wondered sometimes if West's appearance on the scene only exacerbated a problem that existed before him. She wondered if he had never shown up if she might have found someone else to fixate on. Trammell had been the turning point of her life. West was merely the avatar of the depression and trauma that now ruled her.

She checked the time. Two o'clock. Desrouleaux would just be returning from lunch. She picked up her phone and dialed.

"Faith," he said, "Didn't expect to hear from you."

"We hit a lull," she said. "We're catching a few hours of sleep before it's back to the grind."

"I feel you there. I wish I could get a lull."

Faith smiled sympathetically even though Desrouleaux wasn't there to see it. "Have you made any progress?" she asked, trying to sound as casual as possible.

"Well, none of your other acquaintances have been murdered," he said, "No sign of West yet, though. I'm not sure if that means he's made his point and is laying low or if it means the surveillance is working at deterring him."

"So no news?"

"No news, and I hope that means good news, but after two years plus chasing this guy, I don't know if I should let myself hope that much."

"Hope springs eternal," Faith said, "but it never catches you on the way down."

"A springboard, not a trampoline," he agreed. "What about you? How are things on your end?"

"Frustrating as usual," Faith said. "A whole lot of pieces but no idea what the puzzle is yet or how to put it together."

"Yeah, that doesn't surprise me. The Syndicate is a serious outfit. I'm surprised the Bureau didn't want Organized Crime handling this."

"Well, between you and me, I think the Boss is just trying to fill my time so I don't go after West again."

"Yeah, that sounds about right," he said, "He only does this because he cares about you, you know."

Faith bristled but controlled her reaction. "Yeah, I know. I just don't like living looking over my shoulder."

"Yeah," he said, "I get that. Well, I gotta get back now. Chavez is staring at me the way my wife stares at me."

Faith chuckled. "Hopefully, not exactly the way your wife stares at you."

"Oh, Faith," Desrouleaux said with an exaggerated sigh. "It's kind of you to think that, but even my wife hasn't stared at me like that in over a decade."

Faith laughed and exchanged goodbyes with Desrouleaux. After she hung up, she steepled her fingers together and leaned her elbows forward on the table.

So West had chosen a random person from her past and killed him, then disappeared. Maybe he just wanted Faith to remember he was there.

A memory returned to her of one of the early sessions with West when they were exploring their military service. She recalled it first during the interview with Desrouleaux, but it came back now in sharp and clear detail.

"Well, this Decker was important to you, Faith, even if you don't realize it," West insisted. "You were intimate with him, and even if it seemed to you like it was only scratching an itch, it was certainly far more than that. You chose to reach out for human contact, and when you did, you chose Decker."

"I chose him because he had a nice smile and abs," Faith replied, "he's not exactly the one that got away."

"Who is the one that got away?"

Faith thought immediately of Michael, his boyish smile, the laugh he reserved only for those rare occasions when they weren't wracking their brains to try to find some crazed killer or another, the way his face looked when he slept, completely relaxed, free of the years of accumulated stress that eventually overwhelmed even the most resilient of agents.

But that was absurd. She had been in love with Michael, it was true, but it was only a brief infatuation, a puppy love that faded almost as soon as it started.

"I don't really have one," she said.

"Of course you do," West insisted, "but I won't make you tell me who if you wish to keep that thought to yourself. Instead, I'll tell you why Decker was important, why, I suspect, this one that got away was also important."

"Okay," Faith said with a wry smile. "Be my guest."

"You, Faith Bold, are lonely. That is your defining characteristic."

Faith felt herself recoil slightly. She had to fight to keep her voice lighthearted when she said, "Aren't you supposed to try to make me feel better?"

"I'm supposed to help you see things as they truly are," West said, "I'm afraid that more often than not, that involves feeling worse before one feels better. But it is absolutely necessary if you are to gain control of the emotions that now control you."

"My emotions don't control me," Faith said.

"Oh yes, they do," Dr. West replied, "they control everyone. And the emotion that controls you is loneliness. I propose to you, Faith, that you chose Sergeant Decker not because he was the most handsome of the men available. In fact, I would hazard a guess that, in most cases, you would consider a man like Decker one of the least appealing options. But he liked you. He wanted you. Perhaps, in a small way, he even loved you a little. And you wanted that. For just a moment, you wanted to feel like the kind of person who could be loved. That's why you chose him."

"Doesn't everyone want to be loved?" Faith asked.

"They do," West replied, "but we're not talking about everyone. We're talking about you. You and your almost compulsive tendency to destroy every relationship you have before it can become meaningful enough to hurt you."

Faith's smile faded. "You're becoming pretty meaningful right now, Doctor," she said, putting a warning in her voice.

"Think about it, Faith. Decker liked you. He fulfilled you emotionally, however briefly. Then you left the Marine Corps and never saw him again. What's more, you avoided scenarios where you could potentially see him."

Faith's brow furrowed. "How do you know that?"

"It was in your file. Your unit tracks attendees at all of its reunion events. I believe this is to curtail instances of stolen valor. Either way, you did not attend either reunion."

Faith was speechless. She knew you could track where people were. It never occurred to her that you could track where someone wasn't.

West took advantage of her silence and continued. "You dated your partner, Agent Michael Prince, for roughly thirteen months. Then, when you learned that he was going to invite you to move in with him, you ended things abruptly."

"I… that wasn't… I did… it was a mutual breakup."

"Was it?" West asked, "I'm not so sure."

Faith frowned. "Look, Michael's fine. Michael even told me he doesn't want us to get back together. He's with Ellie now, and he's happy. And I'm happy for him."

"I believe you, Faith. I think, in fact, that whatever jealousy you may feel—"

"I'm not jealous."

"—you are also relieved, because now Michael can be your friend and partner. And only that. The status quo remains the same. And I think you keep Michael closer because it hurts you more to have him close. He is living confirmation of your belief that you're not good enough, and I think that belief, that deep-down certainty that you are not enough, is what gets you out of bed in the morning. It's also what will kill you."

Faith stared ahead as the memory receded. She wasn't sure why she remembered it now. It wasn't directly related to the case or even to the West case aside from the fact that it was a memory of West. Why would she be recalling it now?

She fished for an answer but couldn't find one. Next to her, Turk stirred softly in his sleep.

She looked down at him and felt a powerful surge of love. She smiled. If Faith could be said to have any man in her life she loved above all others, it was this four-legged, furry man with the kindest eyes Faith had ever seen and the personality of a dog a fourth his age.

And she had almost lost him. The second time she had gone after West, he had taken Turk from her, and for two months, Faith was certain that she would never see him again. She would never forget the hopelessness she felt when Turk was gone. She would never forget the joy she felt when he returned.

She thought of the dog fighters, the cruel men who saw these animals as nothing more than disposable violent entertainment. If any of them had hurt her dog, she would…

She would kill them.

It all clicked in Faith's head then. Vincent Mariano had been trying to steal a bait dog. Harvey Harris ran a dogfighting ring. Robert Evans had stolen fighting dogs for Roman Kerry.

All three of their victims had stolen dogs and sent them to die. The killer wasn't hunting the gang. He was hunting the people who murdered dogs. Not just any dogs. Innocent dogs. The dogs of innocent people. Rather than breed their own dogs for fighting, Harris and the others stole dogs from other people and sent them into the pit to die.

If someone had taken Turk, and Turk had died in some dogfighting ring, Faith wasn't certain she could have held back if given the opportunity for revenge. Donald Peterson and Aloysius Farmer had both said they didn't feel sorry for the victims. Even Michael had said that he had never been so angry at a criminal as he was at the dogfighters.

Someone had gone all the way. Someone had killed for revenge. Someone had learned that the gang was killing dogs and had sought retribution.

No, someone had lost their dog to the gang and enacted a very personal retribution.

But who? There had been over twenty dogs in the pits when Michael went undercover. Which of those dogs had an owner with the means and the willingness to kill?

Michael stirred and sat up. "Wow," he said, "I'm getting too old for this. How long did I sleep?"

"Michael, I know who the murderer is," Faith told him.

The rest of Michael's fatigue vanished. He sat upright and stared at her. "Who?"

"I don't have a name," she said, "but I have a profile. Our killer is seeking revenge on people who stole dogs that died in the ring."

"But not the dogs who survived," Michael said.

"Not yet, anyway," Faith agreed. "We need the owners of the dogs who died. We need to know where those dogs came from."

Michael thought a moment, then sighed. "What about Harris, though? Harris never stole a dog himself. Our killer has prioritized people who actually stole the dogs, not the pit bosses or the dog fighters. So whose dog did Harris steal?"

"I don't know the answer to that question," Faith admitted, "but I have an idea who might."