Or you, Mr. Bondurant. We just want the truth."

Quinn held his breath, never taking his eyes off Bondurant. A momentpa.s.sed. A decision was made. The scales tipped away from them.

He could see it in Peter Bondurant's face as his hand slipped from theragged bronze lily and he pulled everything inside him tight, and closedthat inner door that had slipped ajar.

"No," Bondurant said, his face a vacant, bony mask as he reached for thereceiver of the sleek black telephone that sat beside the sculpture."You won't get the chance. I won't have my daughter's memory draggedthrough the mud. If I see one word in one paper about what happened toJillian in France, I'll ruin you both."

Kovac blew out a breath and moved away from the table. "I'm just tryingto solve these murders, Mr. Bondurant. That's my only agenda here. I'm asimple guy with simple needs-like the truth. You could ruin me in aheartbeat. h.e.l.l, anything I ever had that was worth anything at all wentto one ex-wife or the other. You can squash me like a bug. And you knowwhat? I'll still want that truth, 'cause that's the way I am. It'll beeasier on all of us if you give it to me sooner rather than later."

Bondurant just stared at him, stone-faced, and Kovac just shook his headand walked away.

Quinn didn't move for a moment, watching Bondurant, trying to measure,trying to read. They had been so close to drawing him out.

.. . "You brought me here for a reason," he said softly, one-on-one,man-to-man. He pulled a business card from his pocket and laid it on thetable. "Call me when you're ready."

Bondurant hit a direct dial b.u.t.ton on the phone and waited.

"One last question," Quinn said. "Jillian liked to write music. Did youever hear her perform? Ever see any of her stuff?"

No. She didn't share that with me."

He looked away as someone answered on the other end of the line.

"This is Peter Bondurant. Put me through to Edwyn n.o.ble."

HE STOOD IN the hall and waited for a long time after the rude rumble ofKovac's car had died away. Just stood there in the silence, in thegloom. Time pa.s.sed. He didn't know how much. And then he was walkingdown the hall to his office, his body and mind seemingly workingindependent of each other.

One floor lamp burned low in a corner of the room. He didn't turn onmore. Night had crept up into the late afternoon and stolen the clearlight that had fallen in through the French doors earlier in the day.The room had a gloomy cast to it that suited his mood.

He unlocked his desk, took a sheet of music from it, and went to standby the window to read, as if the farther the words were away from thelight, the less harsh their reality.

Love Child I'm your love child Little girl Want you more than all theworld Take me to that place I know Take me where you want to go Got tomake you love me Only one way how Daddy, won't you love me Love me nowDaddy, I'm your love child Take me now -JB CHAPTER 15.

THE MEETING IS IN HIS HONOR, in a manner of speaking. He sits in thecrowd, watching, listening, fascinated and amused.

The people around him-he estimates 150, many of them with the media-havecome here because they fear him or are fascinated by him. They have noidea the monster is sitting beside them, behind them, shaking his headas they comment on the frightening state of the world and the viciousmentality of the Cremator. ' He believes some of them actually envy theCremator his boldness, though they will never admit it, None of themhave the nerve, the clarity of vision, to act on their fantasies andrelease the dark power within.

The meeting comes to order, the spokesman of the task force stating thealleged purpose of the meeting, which is a lie. The meeting is not toinform, or even to offer the community a show of action. The purpose ofthe meeting is Quinn's.

"More important in this ongoing cycle of murders, I told them, was tobegin goingproactive, usingpolice efforts and the media to try to lurethe guy into a trap. For example, I suggested the police might set up aseries of community meetings to 'discuss, the crimes. I was reasonablycertain the killer Would show up at one or more of these." -JohnDouglas, Mindhunter.

The purpose of the meeting is to trap him, and yet he sits here, cooland calm. Just another concerned citizen. Quinn is watching the crowd,looking for him, looking for something most people won't recognize: theface of evil.

"People expect evil to have an ugly face, a set of -hams. Evil can behandsome. Evil can be ordinary. The ugliness is internal, a black,cancerous rot that consumes -conscience and moral fiber and the controls that define civilized behavior, and leave an animal hiding behind thenormal facade." -John Quinn, in an interview with People magazine, Inhis sharp tailored gray suit, Quinn is obviously a cut above the localstiffs. He has the bored, superior expression of a GQ model. This stirsanger-that Quinn has finally deigned to acknowledge him in public, andhe looks as if he couldn't be less interested.

Because you think you know me, Quinn. You think I'm just another case.

Nothing special. But you don't know the Cremator. Evil's Angel.

And I know you so well.

He knows Quinn's record, his reputation, his theories, his methods.

In the end, he will have Quinn's respect, which will mean more to Quinnthan it does to him. His dark, true self is above the need for approval.

Seeking approval is weak, reactive, induces vulnerability, invitesridicule and disappointment. Not acceptable. Not allowed on the darkside.

He recites his credo in his mind: Domination. Manipulation. Control.

Lights flash and camera motors whir as Quinn takes the podium.

The woman sitting next to him begins to cough. He offers her a LifeSaver and thinks about cutting her throat for disrupting his concentration.

He thinks about doing it here, now-grabbing a fistful of blond hair,pulling her head back, and in one quick motion slicing through herlarynx and her jugular and her carotid-all the way back to her spine.the blood will flood out of her in a gushing wave, and he will melt backthrough the hysterical crowd and slip away. He smiles at the thought andthumbs off a piece of candy for himself. Cherry-his favorite.

Quinn a.s.sures the people the full services of the Bureau are at thedisposal of the task force. He talks about the VICAP computers, NCIC andthe NCAVC, ISU and CASKU. Rea.s.surance through confusion. The averageperson can't decipher the alphabet soup of modern law enforcementagencies and services. Most people don't know the difference between thepolice department and the sheriff's office.

They know only that acronyms sound important and official. The peoplegathered here listen with rapt attention and sneak glances at the personsitting beside them.

Quinn gives away only the barest details of the profile he's building,experience allowing him to make a little information seem like themother lode. He speaks of the common killer of prost.i.tutes: aninadequate loser who hates women and chooses what he deems the worst ofthe lot to exact revenge for the sins of his mother. Quinn speculatesthis is not an entirely accurate profile of the Cremator, that thiskiller is special-highly intelligent, highly organized, clever-and it isgoing to take the diligence of not only the law enforcement community,but of the community itself to catch him.

Quinn is right about one thing-there is nothing common about theCremator. He is superior rather than inadequate. He cares so littleabout the woman who sp.a.w.ned him, he could never be inspired to revengeagainst her memory.

And yet, in the back of his mind he hears her voice berating him,criticizing him, taunting him. And the anger, ever banked, begins toheat.

G.o.dd.a.m.n Quinn and his Freudian bulls.h.i.t. He doesn't know anything aboutthe power and euphoria in taking a life. He has never considered theexquisite music of pain and fear, or how that music elevates themusician.

The killing has nothing to do with any feelings of inadequacy of hiscommon self, and everything to do with power.

On one far side of the room, the contingent from the Phoenix House takeup their chant: "Our lives matter too!"

Toni Urskine introduces herself and starts in. "Lila White and Fawn Pierce were forced by circ.u.mstance into prost.i.tution. Are you sayingthey deserved what happened to them?"

"I would never suggest that," Quinn says. "It's simply a fact thatprost.i.tution is a high-risk profession compared to being an attorney oran elementary-school teacher,"

"And so they're considered expendable? Lila White's murder didn't rate atask force. Lila White had been a resident of the Phoenix House at one time. No one from the Minneapolis Police Department has come toreinvestigate her death. The FBI didn't send anyone to Minneapolis forFawn Pierce. One of our current residents was a close friend of Ms. Pierce. No one from the Minneapolis Police Department has everinterviewed her. But Peter Bondurant's daughter goes missing andsuddenly we have network news coverage and community action meetings.

"Chief Greer, in view of these facts, can you honestly say the city ofMinneapolis gives a d.a.m.n about women in difficult circ.u.mstances?"

Greer steps up to the podium, looking stern and strong. "Mrs. Urskine, Ia.s.sure you every possible measure was taken to solve the murders of thefirst two victims. We are redoubling our efforts to seek out and findthis monster. And we will not rest until the monster is caught!"

"I want to point out that Chief Greer isn't using the term monsterliterally," Quinn says. "We're not looking for a raving lunatic, foamingat the mouth. For all appearances, he's an ordinary man. The monster isin his mind."

Monster. A word ordinary people misapply to creatures they don'tunderstand. The shark is labeled a monster when in fact it is simplyefficient and purposeful, pure in its thought and in its power. So, too,the Cremator. He is efficient and purposeful, pure in thought and inpower. He doesn't waver in action. He doesn't question the compulsion.

He gives himself over wholly to the needs of his Dark Self, and in thatcomplete surrender rises above his common self.

"At this instant, when the victims were dying at their hands, manyserial killers report an insight so intense that it is like an emotionalquasar, blinding in its revelation of truth." -Joel Noms, SerialKillers.

"SPECIAL AGENT QUINN , what are your theories regarding the burning ofthe bodies?"

The question came from a reporter. The danger with these open communitymeetings was having them turn into press conferences, and a pressconference was the last thing Quinn wanted. He needed a controlledsituation-for the purpose of the case, and for himself. He needed togive out just enough information, not too much. A little speculation,but nothing that could be construed by the killer as arrogance. Heneeded to condemn the killer, but be certain to weave into thatcondemnation a certain kind of respect.

A direct challenge could result in more bodies. Play it too soft andSmokey Joe might feel he needed to make a statement. More bodies.

A wrong word, a careless inflection-another death. The weight of thatresponsibility pressed against his chest like a huge stone.

"Agent Quinn?"

The voice hit him like a prod, jarring him back to the moment.

"The burning is this killer's signature," he answered, rubbing a handagainst his forehead. He was hot. There wasn't enough air in the room.

His head was pounding like a hammer against an anvil. The hole in his stomach lining was burning bigger. "Something he feels compelled toperform to satisfy some inner need. What that need might be, only heknows."

Pick a face, any face, he thought as he looked out at the crowd.

After all the years and all the cases and all the killers, he sometimesthought he should have been able to recognize the compulsion to kill, tosee it like an unholy aura, but it didn't work that way. People mademuch of the eyes of serial killers-the stark, flat emptiness that waslike looking down a long, black tunnel where a soul should have been.

But a killer like this one was smart and adaptable, and no one excepthis victims would see that look in his eyes until he stood for his mugshot.

Any face in the crowd could be the mask of a killer. One person in thisgroup might listen to the descriptions of the crimes, smell the fear inthis room, and feel elated, aroused. He had actually seen killers geterections as their monstrous exploits were related to a stunned andsickened jury.

The killer would be here with his own agenda. To gauge, to judge, toplan his next move. To enjoy the fuss being made over him. Maybe hewould come forward as a concerned citizen. Maybe he would want thethrill of knowing he could stand within their grasp, then walk away. Ormaybe he would choose his next victim from the women in this room.

Quinn's gaze went automatically to Kate as she slipped in the door atthe back of the room. He scanned her face, careful not to linger, eventhough he wanted to. He wanted it too much, and she wanted nothing to dowith him. He'd taken that hint once. He sure as h.e.l.l should have been smart enough to take it now. He had a case to focus on.

"What about the religious overtones?"

"There may not be any as far as he's concerned. We can only speculate.

He could be saying 'sinners burn in h.e.l.l.' Or it could be a cleansingceremony to save their souls. Or it could be that he deems burning thebodies the ultimate disrespect and degradation."

"Isn't it your job to narrow down the possibilities?" another reportercalled out. Quinn almost looked for Tippen in the crowd.

"The profile isn't complete," he said. Don't tell me my job. I know myjob, a.s.shole.

"Is it true you were pulled off the Bennet child abduction in Virginiato work this case?"

"What about the South Beach gay murders?"

"I have a number of ongoing cases at any given time."

"But you're here because of Peter Bondurant," another stated.

"Doesn't that reek of elitism?"

"I go where I'm sent," he said flatly. "My focus is on the case, not where the orders came from or why."

"Why hasn't Peter Bondurant been formally questioned?"

Chief Greer stepped up to the podium to put the official shut-down onthat line of inquiry, to expound on Peter Bondurant's virtues in frontof Edwyn n.o.ble and the Paragon PR person who had attended on Bondurant'sbehalf Quinn stepped back beside Kovac and tried to breathe again.

Kovac had his cop face on, the eyes hooded and flat, taking in far morethan anyone in the audience would have imagined.

"You see Liska's mutt sitting next to her?" he said under his breath.

"He came in uniform, for chrissake."

"That would be handy for getting his victims to go with him," Quinnsaid.

"He's got a petty record that might be something more."

"He's connected to Jillian Bondurant," Kovac said.

"Have Liska ask him in for a sit-down." Quinn wished for that rush ofgut instinct that this might be the guy, but that sense had abandonedhim, and he felt nothing. "Let it sound like a consultation.

We're asking for his a.s.sistance, we want his take on things, his opinionas a trained observer. Like that."

"Kiss his wanna-be a.s.s. Jeer." Kovac's mustache twitched with distaste,"You know, he's not far off that piece-of-s.h.i.t drawing we've got."

"Neither are you. Get a Polaroid when he comes in. Build a photo arrayfor the witness. Maybe she]] tag him."

Greer finished his talk with a final dramatic plea for the public'sa.s.sistance in the case, and pointed out detectives Liska and Yurek asbeing available to take information tonight. As soon as he declared themeeting over, the reporters started in like a pack of yapping dogs.

The crowd instantly became a moving ma.s.s of humanity, some driftingtoward the door, some moving toward the end of the room,_where ToniUrskine from the Phoenix House was trying to rally support for her cause.

Kate wedged her way to the front of the pack, her attention on Kovac. AsKovac stepped toward her, Edwyn n.o.ble moved in on Quinn like the specterof death, his wide mouth set in a hard line.

Lucas Brandt stood beside him, hands in the pockets of his camel-hairtopcoat.

"Agent Quinn, can we have a word in private?"

"Of course."

He led them away from the podium, away from the press, into the kitchenof the community center, where industrial-sized coffeepots lined the redFormica countertop, and a hand-lettered sign taped above the sink read PLEASE WASH YOUR CUPS!

"Peter was very upset by your visit this evening," n.o.ble began.

Quinn raised his brows. "Yes, I know. I was there." He slipped his handsinto his pockets and leaned back against the edge of the counter.

Mr. Relaxation. All the time in the world. He gave a thin smile. "Thetwo of you sat through this meeting to tell me that? Here I thought youwere just another pair of concerned citizens."

"I'm here to represent Peter's interests," n.o.ble said. "I think youshould know he's talking about calling Bob Brewster. He's extremelydispleased that you seem to be wasting valuable time-" @"Excuse me, Mr.n.o.ble, but I know my job," Quinn said calmly.

"Peter doesn't have to like the way I do it. I don't work for Peter.

But if Peter is unhappy, then he can feel free to call the director. Itwon't change the fact that Jillian made two phone calls after she lefthis home that night, or that neither Peter nor you, Dr. Brandt, botheredto mention that to the police. Something was going on with JillianBondurant that night, and now she may be dead. Certain questions need tobe answered one way or another."