Page 3 of So Silent

“Because then I truly would be only a copycat. I would just be another Jethro Trammell. More successful, perhaps, but not unique. His way was simply, brutally effective, and beautiful for that. Like the pyramids at Gaza: a simple, hard geometric form, stunning in its symmetry but not in its complexity.

“What I intend with you, Faith, is a masterpiece worthy of Michelangelo. It is through the intricacy of my work, the subtilty of my particular chisel, that I shall whittle away all of you but the parts I wish the world to see, the parts I wish you to see when you look in the mirror. I can’t achieve that by simply brutalizing you until you expire. I need to break your mind. Your spirit. I need you to lose, Faith. Utterly. Completely. Irrevocably. I need you to come face to face with the enormity of your failure and know that even whole and free you couldn’t stop me. I need you to know that even like this”—he lifted his shackled hands the two inches his bonds would allow—“I was in control and there was nothing you could do about it.”

His eyes still shone, but with a different excitement now. His insanity, once so well-hidden, now revealed its face. It should have made him seem smaller, weaker, but it didn’t. Somehow, he believed he was still in complete control of the situation, and Faith believed he was too.

“Have you hired others to work for you?” she asked. “Is that what you’re planning? You’re going to sic some more two-bit criminals on me and my friends and hope they catch us with our pants down? You must be really confident if you think they’re somehow going to fight their way through all of the FBI agents and police officers protecting everyone I care about.”

“You’re not going to bait me, Faith,” he said. “I’m not going to tell you what the plan is. Only that it’s now set in motion. If it’s any comfort, it won’t change what’s happening to me. You can hold onto that one sliver of joy.” His smile faded, replaced with an almost childish look of annoyance. “That’s the one regret I’ll have as I go to my judgment. In order to beat you, I had to allow myself to be taken. How does the Bible verse go? ‘You shall bruise his head, and he shall bruise your heel.’ Well, you’ve bruised my heel, Faith. So when your world is burnt to ash around you, you can know that I’m going to die for my crimes. Brilliant as I am, there’s no way out of this trap.”

His smile returned, “But that’s all right. It’s even more artistic, don’t you think? You will be my last great work, my deathbed masterpiece. I’ll have my way with you, but you’ve still put me away.”

The door opened, and a very uncomfortable police detective cleared his throat and said, “Um, Bold? There’s a phone call for you. Says it’s urgent.”

Faith looked hard at West. He grinned and said, “You should take that.”

Faith’s blood froze. She got to her feet and rushed from the room, tearing the detective’s phone from her hands as she did. What had West done? Had he gotten to Turk and David somehow? Had he killed Michael?”

“Hello?” she said, her voice taut. “This is Faith Bold.”

"Bold," the Boss said. "Is there a reason you don't answer your phone when I call? Get your ass to the Field Office. I have a case for you."

Faith blinked. “A case?”

“Yes. As in a job. As in your job. Get moving. And turn your damned phone on.”

He hung up, and Faith handed the phone to the anxious police detective. Behind her, she could hear West laughing uproariously in the cell. Heat rose in her cheeks, but she kept her voice calm. “I have to go,” she told the detective. “You can do whatever you need to do with him. I’m done talking.”

“Yeah,” the detective said. “All right. You okay?”

Faith listened to West’s laughter for a moment. The sound echoed inside her head, threatening to drown out all other thought. “Yeah. I’m fine.”

She left the precinct and started the drive to the field office. As she drove, the words echoed in her mind again.

Remember. I will break you.

Chapter Two

“Rebecca Wells, twenty-eight. Former sound engineer for Bethel Records out of Redmond, Washington. Trying to make a go of it as a singer. She was killed in the lobby of her studio this morning around one a.m. local time.”

Special Agent-in-Charge Grant Monroe, known affectionately to his subordinates at the FBI’s Philadelphia Field Office as the Boss, spoke with his usual brusqueness. A nearly thirty-year veteran of the Bureau, his crew cut, constant scowl and blunt demeanor reminded Faith more of her drill instructors in the Marine Corps than of the other SACs she’d met. She still had trouble believing that he had no military experience.

Michael reached for the file the Boss had dropped on the desk and looked at the pictures. “Huh. Forgive me for sounding morbid, but it’s nice to see a body killed in a normal way instead of crushed by a statue or torn apart by dogs. No offense, Turk.”

Turk cocked his head at Faith’s partner, not sure why he would be offended. The Boss frowned at Michael, or rather deepened his frown at him, and said, “Do you plan on taking this case seriously, Prince?”

"I do," Michael said, not reacting to the Boss's anger. "Stabbed through the neck suggests our killer is more well-balanced than dropped-a-statue-on-her guy or paralyzed-my-fake-family guy. It's a nice change of pace. He might be easier to catch, too."

A fifteen-year veteran of the Bureau himself, Michael was the only agent who wasn’t afraid of Grant. Even Faith could be intimidated by the Boss sometimes, but Michael was borderline insubordinate with him more often than not.

The Boss, predictably, was not amused. “Cut the shit, Prince. She’s dead, and it’s your job to find out who killed her. I don’t care if she was stabbed, shot, crushed or buried in acid. Someone killed her, and we’re going to bring that person to justice.”

"Standard question, sir," Faith said, "but why are we involved in this case? I know I ask that every time, but what's the angle here? If she's the only victim, then it's not a serial killer, and not that I support Michael's flippancy, but the death is rather mundane. I don’t really see special circumstances here.”

“Local police called us in. Apparently, the case is similar to a cold case of theirs that had them stymied a year ago. They’ll have more details for you when you arrive. Which will be…” he checked his watch. “Eight hours from now. Six of those will be on a plane which gives you two hours to be sitting at your gate. If you leave now, you might have time to smack some sense into Prince before you board. Either way, get him out of my office.”

Michael stood and held out his hand. “It was lovely talking with you, as always.”

“Fuck off, Prince.”

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