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Authors: Max Allan Collins

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And if he slipped up, they would never have a family to love and nurture again.
He would be gone overnight. With good planning and a little luck, he could go shopping today, and pick up His Beloved's present tomorrow, on the way out of town.
The woman he adored needed children as much as oxygen. She had such a large capacity for love, and when there was no one to share it with—except
for him, of course, and he wasn't able to fill the depths of her needs—the melancholy leached into her system and seemed to suck at her soul, like a ravenous beast. This he had learned long ago. But his love for her was so great, he only wanted her to be happy, and would do anything to fulfill her needs.
She was scarred from a childhood of verbal abuse that had become something far worse, once she was old enough to (as her father had so crudely put it) “go on the rag.''
He was appalled by how terrible some people could be—and the man had been her
father
!
Her mother had been almost as bad, taking His Beloved to a back-alley abortionist who'd butchered the job so badly that she could never have children of her own. Unlike the horrible father, though, the mother might have felt some small measure of guilt, eventually killing herself with sleeping pills. Later, His Beloved's father had been killed when his shotgun had mysteriously discharged while he was cleaning it—a terrible thing for a young girl to have to witness.
She had run away then, His Beloved, and lived on her own briefly, doing whatever she could to survive, until he had met her—“My little knight in shiny armor,'' she called him. They had fallen in love on their very first date and been together ever since. On their way east from his college graduation, headed to his first job, they had stopped for their first “shopping trip.''
She had been wearing him down for months with talk of how easy it would be for them to find a child, a nice blonde girl, like herself, and how much happier they would be with kids in the house. With so many terrible parents out there, giving a really good home to a child would be a blessing for all concerned. Finally, on that trip, he had given in.
A doting mother, His Beloved cherished the children until that dreaded time when they would reach that “special'' age. She trusted no men at all, except him of course, although in this one area, he could not convince her that he would never, ever consider doing what that monster of a father had done to her. She would imitate her father's deep voice, mimicking one of the terrible things she'd heard him say: “Old enough to bleed, old enough to breed!''
His Beloved knew she was scarred—she was nothing if not self-aware—and had seen several shrinks along the way, to try to ease her pain. Mostly, their solutions had involved pills—pills she took to control nearly every aspect of her life: anxiety, depression, mood swings, and, of course, sleep. The nightmares were the worst but the sleeping pills allowed her some peace and seemed to keep her dream demons battered back into their cave. These pills also came in handy when the time came to send their precious girls off to finishing school.
The first girl had been sent to finishing school while he was away at work one day. If he had been
home, he would have tried to prevent it; she knew it, he knew it, so His Beloved simply waited for him to leave for work one morning, then made the girl a good-bye breakfast.
Unable to face losing His Beloved, and knowing there was no way to tell anyone—they had adopted the child through decidedly unofficial means that the authorities, indeed society at large, would neither understand nor condone—he had remained silent.
That had been difficult.
But not any more difficult than going shopping had been, when he'd had to come to terms with the price of making His Beloved happy, which was to deprive some other mother and father of their child. That part, however, had become more and more easy to cope with when he had seen how good a mother His Beloved was. She was the best, most nurturing mother on God's green earth. Thinking about it now, sitting in his rental car, he knew that they had done the right thing. Those girls had been so much better off with the two of them than the neglectful parents who had turned their backs and made it possible for him to retrieve the children. After all, if they had been good parents, they never would have made it so easy for him to go shopping.
He was parked near a day care center on East Twenty-fifth Street, tucked where no one could easily see him in the parking lot of Vic Power Park. With his binoculars, he could sit in the car and
easily see who came and went from the day care center.
That presented a tiny risk—someone might notice the binoculars and get suspicious; but this November afternoon was passing on the wings of a harsh north wind that kept traffic to a minimum. The park, except for two high school kids on the far side who had apparently skipped afternoon classes to hang out and smoke, was vacant. The two teens wanted nothing to do with the adult in the big blue car. They not only kept their distance, but they kept their backs to him, more worried that he would recognize them than the other way around.
Didn't take long for the children to parade out, their parents picking them up and leading them to cars parked along the street. Not long after dismissal, he saw what he was looking for, and she was perfect—perky and blonde, with a smile so wide that he knew His Beloved would fall in love at first sight with the child. Normally he was not an impulse buyer, but this time he knew at once that he didn't have to shop any further.
She was so gorgeous in her jeans, sneakers, and little pink parka zipped to her neck, a Bratz backpack slung over one shoulder as she toddled over to meet a woman, presumably her mother, who also wore jeans, sneakers, and a parka, though the woman's coat was purple, with a Minnesota Vikings logo on the back. She, too, was blonde and slim. Were she here, His Beloved would be jealous of the
way his eyes relished the mother as she held the hand of the little girl and led her to a black Lincoln Navigator parked at the curb.
After the girl was strapped into her car seat, the mother climbed aboard, started the vehicle and merged into the eastbound traffic on East Twenty-fifth. He had set aside the binoculars while the little girl was being tucked into her seat. When the Lincoln pulled out, his car was already started and he put two cars between his and the black Navigator. He was pretty sure the woman had not noticed him, but then hardly anyone ever noticed him, in or out of a car. Still, no point in tailgating—wasn't like he was some simple brigand getting ready to carjack her. This took an element of . . . grace.
He stayed well back as Twenty-fifth changed into Dupont Road. East of town, where North Dublin Road ran south to the airport, she crossed eastward, the road changing names yet again, becoming Lake Carey Road. He was having more trouble now. He had to lag back as the cars between them had all turned off. Following too close might spook the mother and that was the last thing he needed.
As the road turned north, to loop around Lake Carey, he stayed far enough back that she was occasionally out of sight for a second or two. When he came around a corner and she wasn't there, he blurted, “Darn!'' Then, off to the right, he saw tail-lights blink on in the garage of a log-cabin-type house, and recognized the Navigator before the electric garage door started down.
All right—that was home.
His options seemed limited—attaining the child on the route home seemed impossible; equally hard would be trying to get the girl
at
home. Darkness was settling in, the days getting short fast this far north. That left the day care as the most vulnerable spot. He would follow them from the house tomorrow, just in case, but he expected the retrieval would happen at the day care.
That meant he had a lot of planning to do between now and tomorrow.
Which was fine. He would do anything for His Beloved. And anything worth doing was worth doing right.
 
Bemidji, Minnesota
 
Frustration was an emotion with which Dr. Spencer Reid was of course familiar, but rarely in his work, which was after all his refuge.
Dealing with his schizophrenic mother had obviously been, and continued to be, a frustrating experience—she was still housed in the Bennington Sanitarium in their hometown of Las Vegas. Being eighteen years old and forced to deal with his mother's illness had matured him fast (Reid's father had been MIA since the young man's youth). He had been among older kids from very early on, jumping grades, graduating from high school at twelve, always doing his best to seem older than his age.
But the truth was, he'd always felt younger than his age, until the day his mother had been committed, anyway. That day, at eighteen, he'd been a man. He had to be.
Even with all his extensive reading, his three doctoral degrees, and the benefit of an IQ of 187, he had still not been able to help his mother. That frustration had never been quelled. Work helped him hold his frustration at bay—usually.
This particular case, however, was frustration squared, holding a plethora of suspects who fit different aspects of their profile, but none fitting
every
aspect of the profile. Did this mean the BAU team was on the right track, just not quite there? Or did it mean their profile was wrongly skewed?
Another question nagged at Reid—had they overlooked a suspect, while centering in on Billy Rohl and the other members of the hunting party?
He recalled sylviculturist Lawrence Silvan saying several inspectors spent a good deal of time in that forest. The profilers should probably be interviewing those inspectors, both as suspects and possible witnesses. Though the UnSub was clearly careful, one of the inspectors might have seen something, and not realized its significance.
After running this past Hotchner and Morgan, Reid got out Silvan's card and phoned the cell number on the back. With evening settling over Bemidji, Reid did not expect to find the forester in the office. He was wrong.
Silvan answered on the first ring. ‘‘Lawrence Silvan.''
‘‘Mr. Silvan, this is Dr. Spencer Reid, with the FBI?''
‘‘Yes, Dr. Reid, I remember. How can I help you?''
‘‘When we spoke yesterday, you told us forest number four had more than one inspector—am I remembering correctly?'' Of course, he knew he was.
‘‘Yes, three of us, on a rotating basis.''
‘‘May I have their names and contact information?''
Silvan complied: The other inspectors were Randy Beck and Jason Fryman. Phone numbers and home addresses were provided as well.
‘‘Thank you, sir. Can you also come in for an interview?''
‘‘Well, certainly, Dr. Reid. But you must understand that we all travel extensively. I doubt any of us could get in before Friday—although if you're going to be at the law enforcement center at this time tomorrow night, I might make it.''
‘‘Let's say Friday morning, then,'' Reid said. ‘‘Thanks for your help.''
They signed off, and Reid set about getting Fryman and Beck in for interviews. Both men agreed to come in first thing Friday morning. With that done, Reid thought about calling it a day. He was tired, frustrated, and wondering where to turn next when Hotchner said, ‘‘The crime lab guy is on his way back with Garue.''
Reid and Morgan managed to pull themselves up a little straighter in their chairs and JJ, who seemed impervious to long hours, simply pulled her chair a little closer to the others.
The Native American detective entered, his gray hair hanging lank; he looked as fatigued as Reid felt. With Garue was a tall, muscular man with close-cropped brown hair, a wide forehead, tight brown eyes, and a face that looked like it doled out smiles only sparingly.
Garue introduced the agents, then said, ‘‘This is Fletcher Keegan from the regional office of the Minnesota Bureau of Criminal Apprehension.''
Eyeing the big man, who wore work boots, jeans, and (beneath a Windbreaker) a navy Polo shirt with the state BCA logo, Reid had a feeling of déjà vu.
He said, ‘‘We've met before, Mr. Keegan.''
Keegan managed a twitch of a smile. ‘‘I didn't think you'd remember, Dr. Reid,'' he said, his voice a rich baritone. ‘‘You sat in on a lecture Jason Gideon gave when I attended the National Academy.''
‘‘That's right,'' Reid said. ‘‘And you know Rossi.''
Nodding, Keegan said, ‘‘I do, but I notice he's not here.''
Hotchner said, ‘‘When we got word about the victims having originally been abducted in the South, Rossi and SSA Prentiss went down there to investigate from that end.''
‘‘Good idea,'' Keegan said. ‘‘But maybe I have some information that will help you at this end.''
‘‘Glad to hear it.''
Hotchner gestured for the man to sit, and he did, the team leader, too. Garue followed suit.
‘‘First,'' Keegan said, ‘‘now that we've had more time to study the bodies, we can state with surety that the girls were all in good health at the time of their murders.''
Hotchner frowned. ‘‘Could you define ‘good health' more precisely?''
‘‘Certainly. Good health as in not so much as a cavity among the three of them. Their teeth were perfect. One would have benefited from some orthodontic work, but her teeth were healthy and strong. Just as the others' were.''
‘‘Which tells you what?''
‘‘The UnSub fed them well. You would have to say he nourished them. None had so much as a broken fingernail. For lack of a better phrase, if I can wander into your territory of profiling . . . ?''

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