Nashville
10:05 p.m.

Taylor tossed her cell phone down into her lap in disgust. “Where is that bloody woman?” she asked for the fifth time.

“I don’t know,” McKenzie answered, soothing her with his voice. She was damn tired, and wired, and frustrated. How a boy of seventeen could elude them at each step was beyond her. They knew who he was, where he lived, what he drove, yet he was as transparent as a ghost.

“Why don’t we go by her house, see if she’s just got her phone off?” McKenzie suggested.

Taylor tapped her fingers on the steering wheel, the drumming helping her think. Rush off half-cocked after a woman who claimed to be a witch, or join the search for the teenage killer? Though if she were honest with herself, she had to admit that Ariadne had helped, had cut their investigation time down by days with her prescient perceptions and drawings. That didn’t make her a witch, just observant.

“Okay. You have the address?”

“Yes. She’s off Music Row.”

“Close, at least.” Taylor put the car in gear and drove.

It only took five minutes to slip into the quiet streets of Music Row. Taylor pulled the Lumina to the curb in front of a three-story Victorian—eerily reminiscent of the home of the vampire king, Keith Barent Johnson. This house was fully restored, gaily painted a soft sage-green with sparkling white trim. The walk was cement, two steps up in the middle, then five to the wraparound porch. The porch lights were on, but it was easy to see that the lights inside were off; the front door was stained glass with strong steel bars embedded in the pattern. The soft, glowing red eye of a motion detector alarm system peeked out from behind a coat rack. Smart—an alarm system. This was a safe area, but any intelligent woman living alone would have herself reinforced. Though if Ariadne was a witch, Taylor bet she’d cast all sorts of protective spells around her home.

Not that she believed anything like that could possibly work to prevent a crime.

A white wicker swing with green, yellow and white pin-stripe cushions hung from the ceiling of the porch. Taylor could imagine Ariadne sitting in it on warm nights, feet tucked under her like a cat, that glossy black hair streaming in contrast over the white wood.

“She’s not here,” Taylor said, but rang the bell anyway. A deep chime rang out, no one answered the door.

Taylor turned to McKenzie. “Now what?”

He was staring at the front door, distracted, and didn’t answer.

Taylor paced along the porch, glanced around the side of the house. More padded white wicker, a conversational grouping around a large, ceramic chiminea. Exactly squat that would help find Ariadne.

“We have to try something else. We can—”

She stopped, her cell was ringing. The caller ID read unknown name, unknown number. She felt her heart leap into her throat. The last time she’d seen that particular combination on her cell, it was the Pretender, calling to warn her he was coming for her. She signaled to McKenzie, then slowly brought the phone to her ear.

“Jackson.”

The scared voice of the witch rang out into the quiet night.

“Oh, thank the Goddess you answered, Lieutenant. This is Ariadne. I found him. I found the warlock.”

Taylor was already striding to the car, her keys in her left hand. “We’ve been calling you all night. Where are you?” she asked.

Ariadne was whispering, the harshness of her voice amplified by the phone’s speaker.

“I’m out in western Davidson County. Do you know McCrory Lane?”

“Yes.” Understatement, she and Baldwin lived not far from there.

“There’s an old deserted graveyard out here—dates back over two hundred years. It’s a holy place. I saw him, in a dream.”

Taylor stopped short, leaned against the hood of her car. Son of a bitch.

“So you mean you saw him in a dream, is that it, Ariadne? For God’s sake—”

“No, no, listen. Don’t hang up. I dreamed about it, yes, but I came out here to see, and he’s there. He was asleep by the fire. But I think he heard me. I need to get out of here.”

Taylor butted the phone against her forehead. God save me from people who think they can investigate crimes.

“Yes, you do. Leave immediately. Drive to the Shell station at the intersection of Highway 100 and McCrory Lane, go inside, tell them to lock the doors. I’ll get a patrol there as soon as possible. The boy is armed, and he’s dangerous. We’ll meet you there. It’s going to take a little bit—we’re at your place now.”

“Lieutenant?”

Taylor turned the car over and pulled out onto the street.

“Yes?”

“Hurry.”

“Don’t hang up!” Taylor yelled, but Ariadne was already gone. She cursed, then pulled the flasher out and attached it to the roof. They couldn’t waste any time. The revolving light gave her a headache, but she wanted people out of her way.

“Where is she?” McKenzie asked.

“McCrory Lane.” She keyed her radio, called Dispatch. “Lieutenant Jackson, E, 10-82, 10-13, 10-54. Suspect located, I need backup, 8 to the Shell station at McCrory Lane and Highway 100.”

She heard the affirmatives—she’d called for backup for their suspect, let the troops know he had a weapon and coded him very dangerous—the patrol officers in the area would scramble.

The trick would be to get all the personnel in place and take Schuyler Merritt Junior into custody before the press arrived. The media, local and national, had a vested interest in this case now.

The radio crackled. A patrol was rolling from Highway 70 South, ETA three minutes. Taylor breathed a sigh of relief. Ariadne would be fine.

“What in the name of hell does that woman think she’s doing?”

“She thinks she’s helping, LT.”

“I never asked for help. Like I need Miss Marple for the occult set to solve my case?”

“Well, I never did see Miss Marple in a corset and cloak, but I get your drift.”

She smiled at him. “She could give Morticia lessons, that’s for sure. Damn stupid, silly woman, running off after a killer like that. I have half a mind to charge her with obstruction. She should have called me. If this goes south…”

He was white-faced beside her, but said, “It’s not going to go south.”

They were on Old Hickory now, the red light strobing off the fine brick homes, the woods taking on a momentary bloody glow as they flew past. They disturbed a gang of turkeys, feeding too close to the road in the rough off the eighth hole of Harpeth Hills. They fled away from the lights, disappearing off into the brush, tail feathers gleaming white in her peripheral vision.

The radio was crackling—the first patrols had arrived at the Shell station.

Dispatch popped into the fray. “Please advise, Lieutenant Jackson.”

“You’re looking for a pale woman with black hair named Ariadne. She should be locked inside.”

“Negative, LT. No one here like that.”

She heard the words, negative, from three different voices. Beads of sweat popped out on her brow, she put her foot to the floor. The Lumina launched itself down Highway 100. She wrestled her gaze from the blacktop just long enough to shoot a searing I-told-you-so look at McKenzie.