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“I neededhishelp right away,” Faith griped, mostly to herself.

“You want us to leave?” the sergeant groused irritably.

“No,” Faith said. “You can check for ID but leave the rest of the examination for CSI.”

“Yes ma’am,” he jibed.

He left to check for ID while Faith continued to scan the crowd. “Where are you?” she whispered.

They had to find him this time. If they didn’t, they would be out of luck again until there was another body.

CHAPTER TWENTY

Faith scanned the crowd, mind racing. She counted eight employees in all: three janitors, a maintenance worker, and four other people in nondescript uniforms who could have been concierges or ticket-takers. They all regarded the scene with the same frenzied excitement as everyone else. Faith watched their movements and facial expressions closely, but from this distance, it was impossible to pick up on any signs of guilt, if there were any to pick up on.

“Anita Barkley,” the sergeant said, “forty-eight, five-foot-ten and … well, the ID says 180 pounds, but I’ll bet my lunch she was closer to 280.”

Faith rolled her eyes and asked, more to keep the sergeant busy than anything else, “Can you run her ID and see if she had a record?”

“Sure,” he said. “I assume you mean besides the record for most doughnuts consumed in a twenty-four-hour period.”

Faith ignored that gem as well. Turk had caught a scent. He stood, ears pricked, staring intently into the crowd.

Faith followed his eyes. “What is it? What do you see, boy?”

Turk barked once, causing the front row of the crowd to recoil. The riot officers stumbled forward, then nearly fell backward when the crowd resurged again.

“What do you see, boy?” Faith repeated, staring at the crowd ahead of Turk. “Where is he?”

Turk barked again, and Faith saw him this time. A man dressed in the gray coveralls and scuffed boots of a maintenance worker. A tool vest hung over his shoulders, and his face wore an expression that reminded Faith of someone watching a prize fight—a mixture of horror and excitement. His gaze landed on Turk’s and fear first joined, then banished the other two emotions.

He began to back away slowly, eyes fixed on Turk. Faith started to follow, Turk at her side. “Hey!” she called. “Stop!”

At the sound of her voice, the man’s eyes snapped up to hers. He grinned, a look of fear and not mirth, and turned, disappearing into the crowd.

“Dammit!” Faith cried. “Go get him, boy!”

Turk lunged into the crowd, weaving easily through the crammed onlookers. Faith tried to keep up, calling, “FBI! Clear the way!” but the people, excited almost to a frenzy by the sight of a body and a rapidly more aggressive police blockade, didn’t notice her until she was right on top of them, and she quickly fell behind Turk and the maintenance worker as she shoved and pushed her way through.

She heard Turk bark and called, “Get him, boy! Take him down!”

In the back of her head, she recalled the Boss’s irate response the last time she let Turk chase a suspect, but she dismissed that concern immediately. There was a dead body thirty feet behind her, and she would be damned if she allowed another one. If she happened to scare someone who wasn’t the real killer, so be it. If that happened to get back to the Boss, and she was responsible for another complaint against the Bureau, so be that as well. She was probably fired when she got back to Philadelphia anyway. At least she could bring one last killer to justice before she was demoted to civilian and forced to work as a private investigator or security officer like the other failed special agents she’d known over the years.

Turk barked again, more distantly this time, and Faith cursed again under her breath. She wondered if she should call Turk to wait for her. She didn’t want the killer—if he was the killer—to lead him toward the tracks and throw him off of the platform the way Schoenmaker had. Turk had survived that brush with death, but she knew chances were slim he’d get that lucky again.

Then again, she didn’t want to lose her suspect. If he was the killer and he got away yet again, he might be spooked into ceasing his spree and leaving the Terminal entirely. With the little evidence they had, none of it leading to a particular individual, chances were slim to none that they would ever apprehend him. Faith could live with that if she could believe that he would be cowed into stopping his murderous ways for good, but deep down, she thought that he would only be scared for a while before the urge would grow too strong, and he would strike again, maybe in a different place in a different city. Other killers had followed the same pattern, killing until the heat grew too great for them, then hiding only to resurface when things cooled down.

“Turk!” she called. “Turk, where are you!”

She received an answering bark and was somewhat comforted to note it seemed no farther away than before, albeit no closer. “Good boy!” she called. “Go get him! For Pete’s sake,clear a path!”

Her shout caused the crowd in front of her to momentarily give way, and she caught sight of Turk, about forty yards ahead, still chasing the maintenance worker, who was now running full tilt, barreling through the onlookers and pushing several to the ground in his haste to escape.

Faith sprinted after him, shouting, “FBI! Stop!”

He didn’t stop, of course. He turned, and when he saw Turk gaining on him, he cried out and began running even faster. Faith tried a new tactic. “Stop, or I’ll tell him to bite!”

The maintenance worker turned around in alarm, this time meeting Faith’s eyes. “I swear to God, I’ll tell him to bite you!” Faith said. “Stop running!”

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