He’d never had another case like it and that was just fine with him.

Photos of every victim shone clearly in Mason’s memory. During the investigation he’d examined each picture a thousand times. He recalled the image of the perky blonde gymnast, Suzanne Mills. She’d been a beautiful girl with a wide smile and natural blonde ringlets. Each victim had radiated a fresh energetic beauty, setting them apart from their peers, making them irresistible to a killer. All had been athletes and all had been blonde.

Only in Suzanne’s case had there been a witness to the abduction. Suzanne had been with another gymnast, walking downtown, heading for a team dinner at a nearby restaurant. DeCosta had first attacked the witness, but she’d fought off the bastard, suffering a broken leg and severe head injuries. Then DeCosta had turned his attention to Suzanne, knocking her out and carrying her to his car. From her position on the bloody sidewalk, the injured witness had managed to memorize part of the license plate. Later the brutalized girl had bravely sat in court and testified to convict the killer.

The image of the surviving victim was also burned into Mason’s memory. She was sitting in front of him. He scanned her distraught face.

“You were there,” he stated softly. “You were the one who got away.”

Dr. Campbell didn’t react.

Out of the corner of his eye, Mason saw Ray’s jaw drop. Everyone had known there’d been a girl who escaped, but her identity had been kept out of the newspapers. Now Ray stared at Dr. Campbell, studying her with renewed curiosity and awe.

Ray’s thoughts had to be identical to Mason’s. The woman who’d identified the skeleton was also the girl who got away?

“That was you?” Ray asked.

She nodded silently.

“And you’re positive this skeleton is Suzanne Mills.”

Dr. Campbell didn’t meet Mason’s eyes, her gaze fixed on the silent tent that housed the remains of her friend.

“No one would know her better than me.”

Cal struggled to place the tune as his captor continually hummed.

A rock anthem from the sixties, maybe early seventies. The lead singer had a big hooked nose. What was the band called? The song’s name? Cal tormented his brain in the effort.

The insignificant questions gnawed at him.

Cal opened his eyes. Well, one eye. The other had been swollen shut for… How long had he been sitting here? The room had no windows, no clock.

Nothing to measure the passing of time.

His bladder had emptied as he’d sat tied to the chair. That’d been a long time ago, and he’d held it forever before giving up.

Twelve hours? Twenty-four hours? Days?

He didn’t know how long or, more importantly, why he was here.

It was freezing in the room. And it stank. At first it just smelled of mold and musty disuse, but now the sharp ammonia of urine nauseated him.

He figured he was in a basement because of the low ceiling and dirt floor. Its walls were built with big bricks of concrete that gave the room an impenetrable, underground feel. Someone had taken the time to paint an American flag that covered one entire wall. Its colors were fresh and crisp.

Cal hadn’t missed the irony of being tortured in front of the symbol of freedom.

He remembered he’d been nabbed in his garage. He’d just driven in and stepped out of his truck. A powerful blow to his head had cut off the rest of his memory. Then he’d woken up here, suffering from the stepmother of all headaches. And that was when he felt good.

Closing his good eye, he tipped back his head to rest on the wooden chair. The humming continued to stab at his brain. It was the same damned song over and over. He ached to tell the hummer to shut the fuck up, but he’d already made that mistake. And now he had one functioning eye as a result of his temper. He’d never use the injured eye again and he wanted to keep the good one intact.

He kept his opinions to himself behind the foul gag in his mouth.

“You like to hunt, Cal?” The humming had stopped.

Cal didn’t answer.

“I know you do. Elk, deer, ducks. People.”

Cal’s head lurched up off the chair back. His eye opened again.

“You didn’t like that? People? I know you’ve hunted people. That’s what you did for thirty years. Right? Isn’t that one aspect of a cop’s job? A big aspect?”

The hummer stood behind him. Cal couldn’t see his face. He didn’t need to. It was rammed deep into his memory. He wouldn’t forget this guy. Ever.

“Ever kill anyone?” The hummer paused. “You don’t have to answer that. I know you didn’t. I checked. You were involved in four shootings in your career but never snuffed out a life. You ever wonder how it’d feel? To take a life? Would the guilt destroy you? Eat away at your brain? The way it did Frank Settler?”

Cal jerked in the chair, his wrists and ankles straining against their bonds. Frankie’d been dead for over twenty years. A suicide. A fellow cop, he’d accidentally shot a kid and couldn’t handle the mental and emotional aftermath. Frankie’s pain had haunted Cal for years.

Who was this guy?

“Frank must’ve been a wimp. He showed a dire lack of internal control. That’s what separates the men from the boys, Cal. You’ve gotta have power over your emotions and actions. A man can achieve whatever he wants with self-discipline. But you’ve got to exercise it, develop it.”

What the fuck?

“Ted Bundy started with firm willpower, then lost it. He made careful plans but didn’t stick to them. That’s the key to every success: stick to the plan. Bundy could’ve eluded police forever if he’d kept his head and controlled his lust.”