But then Marvin was the outlier. Marvin was a paramedic, and not even a team leader. Someone else told someone else what to tell him to do. He wouldn’t be the only paramedic responding either. He would be part of a team, and it would be clear that he wasn’t the leader of that team. No one would reasonably believe that he was taking advantage of vulnerable people. He wasn’t particularly wealthy either, certainly not nearly as well-off as an experienced doctor or a veteran lawyer.

  So what was the motive? Why these victims? There had to be some reason. She couldn’t believe the killer was just spitballing, so what was he thinking when he chose them? What factor, logical or otherwise, made a fifty-two-year-old lawyer as attractive as a thirty-six-year-old paramedic and a forty-two-year-old doctor?

  She completed the circuit—her fifth since they arrived back at the hotel—and sighed. She cast back at everything she’d learned in the case so far and tried to find any straw to grasp, no matter how small, but there was nothing. Nothing stood out in her mind that could lead her to understand the reasons behind this murder.

  And the next one. She knew for sure that their killer wasn’t done. That was one hunch she still felt confident about. Their killer would kill again, and soon. There was a week between victims one and two. There were four days between victims two and three. Tonight was the second night after victim three’s death. There could be another victim any day.

  She needed help. Michael was asleep, and she and Michael had brainstormed and come up with nothing several times already. She needed an outside perspective.

  She pulled her cell phone out and dialed Clark’s number. It rang several times, then went to voicemail. Clark must be busy with another case at the moment.

  “Hey, Gordon, it’s Faith,” she said. “Hey, I was hoping you could help me out with the case. Michael and I have hit a dead end, and I want to get a fresh perspective on things. Call me back when you get this message.” She paused a moment, then added, “When I get home, I’ll go through the Copycat case and let Desrouleaux know if I have any thoughts.” She paused again. “Thank you for trusting me.”

  She hung up and took a deep breath, then headed inside. She wouldn’t get anything else from walking around and stewing.

  ***

  Gordon Clark listened to Faith’s message as he walked up the stairs to his apartment. He had to smile. Faith’s news wasn’t good, but the fact that she was reaching out for help and willing to admit that she wasn’t superhuman was a great sign. She had matured a lot since Clark had taken her—unwillingly at first—under her wing.

  He would call her back in a few minutes, but first, he needed a shower. He had just returned from the latest Copycat Killer scene—victim number thirty. Once more, they had found nothing to help them advance the case. He was grateful that Faith would be looking into it. She had the sharpest mind he had ever seen in an investigator. With her looking at things from a new angle, he had no doubt they would make headway.

  It didn’t worry him that Faith was stumped at the moment on her current case. She always was at first, but she always figured it out. She would get through this case, then she would help them get through the next one.

  Preferably as lead investigator. He hadn’t shared this plan with anyone else, but he intended for Faith to take over the Copycat Killer investigation after she proved herself by finding leads in the file and doing so without going cowboy. He would make the case to the Boss and Desrouleaux. Desrouleaux wouldn’t fight him. He was nearing retirement, and whether he solved this case or he didn’t, he was likely done in a year or two. Chavez was new, and she didn’t expect to be made lead of anything for a while.

  The Boss would be a harder sell. He still took Faith’s near-implosion personally, feeling that she had taken advantage of his repeated forgiveness and the endless second chances he gave her. Still, Gordon felt he could convince him. He was one of Faith’s biggest supporters prior to the Trammell case. He wanted to believe. Gordon could work with that.

  He opened the door and walked inside. The lights were off to save electricity, and the room was pitch-black, but Gordon knew where everything was, so he navigated to the light switch without bumping into anything.

  He switched the light on just in time to see the silhouette of an attacker and a knife coming toward him. He moved instinctively, swiping at the knife. He missed, but he managed to get his shoulder in between the knife and his neck, so instead of being buried in his carotid, it glanced off of his collarbone, opening a nasty but not deadly cut.

  He stepped forward and shoved his attacker back, tripping him over his heel. The attacker stumbled but didn’t fall. Gordon had time to register a few details—male, medium height, athletic build—but he couldn’t get much more than that. The attacker wore a black ski mask, gloves, and a long-sleeve shirt with jeans, which revealed nothing of his appearance other than gender. Clark couldn’t tell the attacker’s race or age, besides a rough estimate of between twenty and forty or a well-preserved fifty based on his athleticism.

  Speaking of athleticism, the attacker recovered quickly and launched another attack. Clark parried the blow and launched a right cross that caused the man to stumble again. Once more, he recovered quickly and thrust with the knife.

  Ignoring the searing pain in his shoulder, Clark parried blow after blow. He didn’t get a chance to counterattack after the first punch. His attacker was just too fast. He needed to find another way to stop the guy. He worked his way back into his living room where he had more space to work. Once there, he angled away from a knife thrust and threw a powerful left hook. The attacker ducked it and tried to come over the top with the knife.

  Clark grabbed at him, driving forward and stopping the blow. He pulled the attacker’s shoulders close, switched his hips, and tossed him over his shoulder to the ground.

  He reached for the knife, but the attacker planted his foot on Clark’s chest and shoved him backward. He fell against the far wall and got quickly to his feet, hands up and chin tucked in a boxing stance.

  The attacker chuckled. “You’re good, Clark. I never imagined you’d be this dangerous. I always thought you were more of a desk jockey.”

  “Who are you?” Clark demanded. “What do you want with me? Did the cartel send you?”

  The attacker laughed again, circling Clark, knife held ready in his right hand. “No, I’m not a demon from your past, Gordon. I’m a demon from your present.”

  Clark knew then. His eyes widened. “You’re the Copycat.”

  “I prefer to think of myself as the master’s greatest student, here to take the throne that is rightfully mine.”

  He lunged at Clark, but Clark saw the blow coming and ducked it easily. He swept at the attacker’s foot, but the man danced away. Clark’s shoulders burned, and he felt moisture over the right side of his chest. His injury must be more serious than he thought.

  “Really?” Clark said contemptuously. “That’s what you aspire to? To be the next Donkey Killer?”

  “Everyone reaches for greatness in their own way,” the attacker said, launching another attack with the knife.

  Clark ducked it again and this time buried his fist in the attacker’s solar plexus. The attacker doubled over, but when Clark tried to grab his wrist and free the knife, the attacker fell to the floor, dragging Clark with him. He flipped Clark over his shoulder, wresting his arm free. Clark crashed into his TV, knocking it over and shattering the screen. He jumped to his feet quickly, narrowly avoiding another swipe with the knife.

  Clark’s chest heaved, and he felt more wetness on the top of his scalp from where he impacted the TV. He had to stop this guy soon. He was losing energy quickly, and he didn’t like how much he was bleeding from his shoulder.

  He had to keep the guy talking and try to find an opportunity.

  “So your greatness,” Clark said, “is to mimic another killer. Your name literally is the Copycat.”

  “For now.” the attacker said. “I intend to finish what my master started.”

  “Oh yeah?” Clark said, circling behind his couch to create some distance between him and the attacker. “What’s that?”

  “I’m going to kill Faith Bold,” he said.

  A chill ran through Clark. “Faith Bold? Why her? She’s not even on this case.”

  “She wasn’t,” the attacker said, “but you brought her back.”

  “I asked her to look at some paperwork,” Clark said. “I’m the one who’s been after you. I’m the one you want, not her.”

  “I’ll get you too,” he said, “that’s why I’m here. But let’s face it, Clark. You’re small time. You’re not all that special. Killing you will just be another notch in my belt. But Faith. She’s special. Trammell knew it. He considered Faith to be his crown jewel. He was going to break the FBI’s rising star. He was going to take her body, take her will, and take her life. He came up short. I won’t.”

  Clark laughed as he moved toward the coat closet. There was a bag of golf clubs in there. If he could get to one, he could knock the attacker out.

  “Faith is going to mop the floor with you, asshole,” Clark said. “You’re nothing to her. She found your master, and she’ll find you.”

  “She’s already found me,” the Copycat Killer said, “she just doesn’t know it.”

  “So now, what, you kill me, then you kill her?”

  “You, yes. I won’t kill her yet,” he said. “I’m going to break her first. I’m going to take her will. I’m going to take away her strength until she’s begging for death before I even touch her.”

  “Trammell tried that, remember?” Clark said, inching closer to the closet.

  “Trammell was sloppy,” the Copycat Killer said. “He was a visionary, but like most visionaries, he lacked a practical understanding of how to achieve his goals. I don’t suffer from that lack. I am careful. I am patient. I will take as much time as I need to execute the perfect assault on her mind and character. I nearly succeeded, in fact, until you stopped me. I had Faith on the ropes mentally, and you rescued her.” He shook the knife back and forth like he was waggling a finger. “That’s cheating.”

  “Yeah?” Clark said. “Well, that’s the difference between you and me. See, there’s only one of you. There’s a whole damn lot of us.”

  “One less after today,” the Copycat assured him.

  “Yeah?” Clark said again. “Let’s see.”

  He threw open the closet door. The Copycat rushed at him just as Clark’s hands closed around the golf club.

  The Copycat lunged with the knife.

  With a cry, Clark pulled the club out and swung with all of his might.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Faith woke before dawn, as she usually did. The long rest left her with a clear mind and a renewed focus. Clark hadn’t gotten back to her yet, but he was up to his ears in work these days. He had done well enough as Faith’s supervisor that the Bureau had made his promotion official, and now he was managing all of the murder cases in the office. He would get back to Faith as soon as he could.

  Still, she had to face the reality that she might not have time to wait. So, while she waited, she would work.

  She made coffee and sent Michael a text to meet her in her room when he woke up. Turk continued to sleep, so Faith moved carefully, sitting at her table and pulling out her notepad.

  Michael knocked on the door. Turk opened his eyes and lifted his head, but as soon as he caught Michael’s scent, he lowered it again and promptly fell back asleep. Faith answered the door and said, “Were you up already?”

  “Why does that always surprise you?” Michael said, crossing the room to the coffeemaker and starting a cup. “You’ve known me for ten years. You know I’m not lazy.”

  “I also know that you’re never up before me,” Faith pointed out.

  Michael ignored the jibe and said, “So what do you have for me?”

  “Nothing,” she said. “Hopefully we can find something together.”

  He scoffed. “Yeah, I got nothing either. I think we need to reexamine this entire thing from the beginning.”

  “I agree,” Faith said. “We’ve been going off of the assumption that the murders are planned and intentional, and I still think that’s the case.”

  “Even after all our suspects proved to be innocent?”

  “All our suspects so far,” Faith corrected. “I think we need to keep looking.”

  “Where, though? That was the personal connection between all three victims. We could say our guy has a general dislike of medical professionals, but why the lawyer, if that’s the case? We could say he just dislikes wealthy people, but Marvin wasn’t wealthy. I have a hard time believing the killings are random. If they were, then why are the burials taking place all over the Houston area? Unless our killer’s living in his car, it’s much more likely he’d choose random victims from close to home.”

  “The Demon of Morgan County operated over an even wider area than here. So did the Marriage Counselor in Tucson.”

  “The entire population of Morgan County could fit into a neighborhood in Houston,” Michael countered. “The Tucson case is a good point, but I don’t think it’s the same here. The Marriage Counselor killed his victims quickly and left a mess. He wanted people to find the bodies. This guy is burying them alive and I have a feeling the bell is there to give false hope, not for us to find them. Now that it’s in the news, I don’t think he’ll leave a bell again.”

  “No, probably not,” Faith agreed, “and I think there’s a motive for these particular victims too. I just don’t know what it might be.”

  “So we’re back to square one,” Michael said.

  They fell silent a moment, both frustrated at the lack of progress. Faith sipped her coffee and allowed the warm brew to calm her. “So let’s start from square one,” she said. “What could motivate our killer other than hatred for the wealthy or a personal vendetta against all three?”

  Michael thought for a moment, then shook his head. “I keep coming back to the personal vendetta. It’s just the only thing that makes sense.”

  “Who then?” Faith asked. “We have the connection between Marvin and Dr. Ames. What about the lawyer? How does he fit in?”

  Michael folded his hands on top of the table and pursed his lips. Faith waited patiently. She had worked with Michael for ten years, and she knew that his expression meant he was thinking carefully. Prince was sometimes dismissed as a gumshoe, second fiddle to Faith, but that was doing him a disservice. He had a keen mind, and since Faith hadn’t gotten anywhere and was still waiting for Clark’s input, he was the best chance they had at a new lead.

  Michael leaned back, lacing his fingers behind his head. “What did his ex-wife say about the DUI? He hit a girl?”

  “Yes, ten years ago,” Faith said. “What does that have to do with now?”

  “Revenge is a dish best served cold,” Michael quoted. “In this case, it would be very cold, but if our killer wanted to avoid suspicion, he would want it to be cold.”

  “He could also have waited to be ready,” Faith said. “He might not have felt like he could accomplish the killings back then, so he could have decided to be patient and work out his plan first.”

  “That would be the logical thing to do,” Michael agreed. “Take his time, figure out a plan, then go after his victims when he knew he had the chance to get away with it.”

  “Or to get it done,” Faith said. “It might be more important to him to kill the people he sees as responsible for the girl’s death than to keep his freedom after it’s done.”

  “So he wants the lawyer because obviously he’s the guy who hit the girl,” Michael said, “but why the paramedic and the doctor? They worked their asses off to save her.”

  “He might not see it that way. If he’s a loved one, and I think it’s safe to assume he is, then he would have blinders on. He wouldn’t see a hospital full of people at death’s door, he’d see his loved one and wonder why the doctor wasn’t doing everything she could to save her. He would see her quick thinking and her likely decision to leave the nurses in charge of providing care as treating his loved one as unimportant.”

  “And he might think the paramedics weren’t moving quickly enough,” Michael agreed.

  “Or he might just be upset that someone so valuable to him could be lost and be offended that the paramedics weren’t as emotionally affected by it.”

  Michael nodded. “That’s crazy, but so is burying people alive. It’s worth looking into.”

  “It’s all we have to look into right now,” Faith said. “At least until Clark gets back to me.”

  “You called Gordon?” Michael asked, lifting an eyebrow.

  “Yeah, I left him a message last night,” Faith said. “I just wanted to ask for some help since I haven’t gotten anywhere. Since we haven’t gotten anywhere.”

  “You asked for help?”

  Faith rolled her eyes. “All right, all right.”

  “Shit, I’m running to the gas station at the corner and buying my lottery tickets,” Michael said. “Faith Bold intentionally asking for help on a case. I never thought I’d see the day.”

  Faith swiped playfully at him, and he parried the blow, laughing. “Yeah, yeah, yuk it up,” she said, grinning. “I’m growing, all right?”

  “Did Dr. West encourage you to seek help from those around you?” Michael teased.

  “Hey, it was your idea for me to go see a therapist to begin with,” Faith said, “so don’t be surprised when it actually pays off.”

  “I’m not surprised that it’s paying off,” Michael replied. “I am a little surprised that you took my advice in the first place.”

  “Look at you, trying to take credit for my growth again,” Faith said.

  “Hey, everyone thinks I’m just your wingman anyway,” Michael said. “Might as well own up to it and take credit for your resurgence.”