He was, in many ways, her first love. She had experienced puppy love in high school and a brief but passionate fling with one of the staff sergeants in her platoon in the Corps sometimes fueled late-night fantasies, but Michael was the first person she could see herself spending her life with. The pressures of the job had snuffed the romance, but sometimes Faith wondered what might have happened if the two of them had made it.

  She focused on her breathing and allowed her mind to settle, but this time it didn’t settle. Instead, it drifted back to the other frustrating case in her life.

  The Copycat Killer was hunting her friends, and she was here trying to wrestle with one of the most elusive killers she’d ever looked for. David would be home in ten days. She knew she wouldn’t be able to convince him to stay away longer, and she doubted she could convince Michael to keep Ellie out of town. The two of them would be safe as long as Michael and Faith were home, but if they were called on a case again, the Copycat Killer would jump at that chance.

  Faith wondered if she was losing her touch. She knew it was a foolish conclusion to reach, but she couldn’t help wondering. In ten years with the Bureau, she’d never lost a single case. The closest she’d come was the Donkey Killer, but even if she had been injured, she had still managed to lead Michael and the other agents to Trammell.

  Since then, she had been nothing less than a force of nature in terms of her case-solving skills. She had shown cracks in other areas, but her intuitive and deductive skills remained sharp as ever.

  Except when it came to the Copycat Killer. Twice, she had suspected people who were clearly not possible suspects. One of those had been the man who was now the most recent victim of the Copycat Killer. For whatever reason, her judgment when it came to the Copycat Killer was frayed.

  No, not whatever reason. She couldn’t think clearly about the Copycat Killer because he was using the Donkey Killer’s MO, and despite over a year of therapy and two years with Turk as an emotional support dog as much as a K9, she was still traumatized by what she suffered.

  Not for the first time, she thought the Boss was right to keep her off of the case. She couldn’t think objectively about it. She couldn’t apply her sharp reasoning skills to it because she couldn’t reason.

  Maybe she should let it go. Maybe she should tell the Boss that she had had enough of the FBI and was ready to move on to the next chapter of her life. Maybe she would join a police department and handle smaller-profile cases and not have to risk her sanity the way she was with the Bureau.

  Except that Michael and Ellie were still in danger. David was still in danger. She couldn’t just give up when the people she cared most about were under threat from the most prolific serial killer the Bureau had investigated in decades.

  She sighed and ran her hands through her hair. Turk nudged her, and she looked down into his empathetic eyes. “Sorry, boy,” she said. “Mommy’s just losing it again.”

  Turk barked solemnly, and Faith chuckled. She knelt down and scratched him behind his ears. “I’ll be all right,” she said, “I’m just having a bad day.”

  She knelt next to Turk and stroked his fur, allowing her mind to sift through the case some more. She let her thoughts bounce and didn’t fixate on anything, letting her mind decide where to stop.

  It stopped on Ellie, Michael’s wife.

  Faith didn’t have a good reason to suspect her, and she didn’t allow herself to consider the woman seriously. She wouldn’t make the mistake of following that rabbit trail again.

  But…

  Ellie had given Michael the runaround for the entirety of their relationship. Whatever excuses Michael wanted to make for her, she had lied repeatedly about the state of her marriage to the mysterious Frank. She had promised to divorce him repeatedly and only recently actually followed through.

  Well, that could mean anything. Divorces were ugly, and Ellie probably didn’t want her new relationship to be poisoned by the old relationship she was struggling to sever herself from. If Frank had been the primary breadwinner in their relationship, she might have had very good reason to avoid an official engagement with Michael until the divorce was finalized.

  But…

  When she visited them for dinner, Ellie had seemed to endure rather than enjoy Michael’s attention. She seemed to dole out affection mechanically, as though it were a conditioned response and not a natural reaction. She stiffened when he kissed her and tensed when he put his arm around her.

  Well, there could be a reason for that too. Faith didn’t know anything about Frank. He could have been abusive, and Ellie’s behavior could be a reaction to her past trauma the way Faith’s moodiness in the months following the Donkey Killer incident was a reaction to her own trauma. That would also explain her desire to keep the details of her marriage and divorce private. If Michael found out about any abuse, he would absolutely go after Frank and get himself in trouble, and Ellie wouldn’t want that for the new love of her life.

  But…

  The moment Turk met Ellie, he was every bit as wary and distrustful as Faith was. He wouldn’t let Ellie anywhere near Faith and made it clear he didn’t want Ellie anywhere near himself either. He wasn’t exactly aggressive with her, but he watched her like a hawk and grew very defensive anytime Ellie approached either of them.

  Well, Turk had been wrong about things before. He had openly attacked Gordon at the field office, and only Faith’s quick reflexes had saved Gordon from a mauling.

  But…

  Faith’s phone rang, startling her out of her ruminations. “Special Agent Bold.”

  “Faith, it’s Tom.”

  Faith stood, her senses instantly alert. The deputy’s voice was tense and strained. “What is it, Tom?”

  “We just found a dog on the street,” he said, “some sort of spaniel. There’s blood on the muzzle.”

  ***

  Tom waited with animal control at the small playground where the dog had been found. When Faith and Michael arrived, he gestured at the dog. Faith could clearly see it was a King Charles Spaniel. She would bet her badge that the name emblazoned on the small bone-shaped tag that hung from its collar was Trotter.

  “Animal control is ready whenever you are. I told them to wait in case you wanted to interact with the dog before it’s sedated.”

  The spaniel gave a bark when it saw Turk and trotted amiably over. Turk peered more closely at it, but when the animal was within five yards, Turk recoiled and stiffened. He started to bare his teeth, but when the spaniel continued to trot over, tail wagging happily, he closed his lips again and simply stared uncomfortably at the smaller dog.

  The spaniel stopped in front of Turk and barked in greeting. Turk dipped his head warily, and the spaniel trotted over to Faith.

  Trotting turned out to be appropriate. As Faith suspected, the dog was none other than the infamous Trotter, former neglected companion of one Gigi Demetrioius.

  Faith looked at Michael. “This is Gigi’s dog.”

  “And it’s eaten recently.”

  Faith turned back to Trotter and saw the caked, dried blood around the muzzle. Trotter stared back at her with bright, friendly eyes and barked his greeting again.

  Fatih and Michael shared another look. An animal control officer with a net approached, looking questioningly at Faith. Faith shook her head. “A leash is fine, officer. This dog isn’t vicious.”

  “But the blood,” Michael pointed out.

  “I know,” Faith replied. “Something doesn’t add up here.”

  “Are we sure this is one of the dogs and he didn’t just pick up a rat?”

  “It’s possible he’s just been lost since Gigi lost him, but…” she ran her hands up and down Trotter’s sides, to the animal’s obvious pleasure. His midsection was well-filled out, perhaps even very slightly overweight, “I doubt it. Someone’s been feeding him.” She looked over his coat. “And bathing and grooming him.”

  “Well, we need to get him to the station,” Tom replied. “We can confirm the identity of the blood on his muzzle and maybe we’ll get lucky and find fingerprints or DNA from whoever’s been feeding him.”

  “Yeah,” Faith said, “sounds good.”

  She picked up the small dog, who settled into her arms and closed its eyes. Michael stiffened a little, seeing her hold the dog, but violence was clearly nowhere near Trotter's mind as he snuggled and promptly fell asleep.

  She handed the sleeping dog to the animal control officer and asked, “Be gentle with him. I don’t think he’s violent.”

  “We’ll be gentle, ma’am,” the officer replied, “but he’ll still have to be kept in isolation. I’ll make sure we interact with him as much as possible, but until we know for sure he’s not violent, he’ll have to be kept alone.”

  “That’s fine,” she said, “Just don’t put him down all right?”

  "No, ma'am," he replied, shaking his head. "We can't put an animal down if it's evidence in a case."

  She smiled briefly and turned to Tom. “Call me if you find anything.”

  “We will,” he assured her. “Where are you going?”

  “Back to the hotel,” she said. “I’m going to try and sleep. If you find something, call me, though. I don’t mind being woken up for a lead.”

  “Will do.”

  Back at the hotel, Michael headed to the shower. Faith put the tv on for Turk and told him to sit, then stepped outside. She stayed in front of the window so Turk could see her and called David.

  “Hey, Faith,” he said. “What’s up?”

  “Hey, David,” she said. “I need your help.”

  “What is it?” he said, his voice suddenly serious. “Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine,” she said. “I have a question about the case I’m working on.”

  “The case? You want my help with a case?”

  “Yes,” she said. “It involves dogs.”

  “Ah,” he said, “How can I help?”

  She described the main points of the case, keeping names out of the conversation and omitting the little waste of time with the coyote but mentioning the leads they’d followed so far and the oddness of a pack of different-sized dogs cooperating on a kill.

  “Well, actually, your coroner is wrong about that,” David replied. “Dogs of all sizes will cooperate to hunt food if needed. It doesn’t happen much in the first world, but places like India and Brazil have large populations of strays that cooperate when they hunt.”

  “These aren’t strays,” Faith said. “We found a bootprint.”

  “Right,” he said, “and the King Charles Spaniel wasn’t aggressive at all.”

  “Not at all,” Faith said. “If anything, he was relieved to see us. he came right up and asked to be held.”

  “So what are you asking me?”

  “I’m asking if it’s possible to train dogs to be vicious on command but gentle when not.”

  “Well, yeah,” he replied. “That’s why the guard dogs at the junkyard calmed down immediately when they heard their owner call you friend. Maybe don’t break into a junkyard with a pack of guard dogs again, by the way. Since we’re talking.”

  “Yeah, but this is different. The guard dogs weren’t vicious. They weren’t trying to herd us, they were trying to hold us. Turk even bit one of them, and the dog he bit didn't try to bite him back. They just wanted us in one place until their owner arrived. They could have killed us, but they didn't. These dogs… they didn't just kill the victims, they tore them apart. They mangled them and ate parts of them. It wasn’t like trained guard dogs, it was like a pack of wild dogs going after prey.’

  “Hmm,” David said. “It is unusual for a dog to be both vicious like that and desirous of companionship from strangers. Obviously, vicious dogs exist, but it’s odd that the spaniel could have contributed to killing someone and then asked to be picked up by a complete stranger.”

  “So there’s no way this is possible without some sort of human intervention,” Faith reasoned, “but what kind of intervention could prompt this kind of behavior?”

  “Well,” David said, “I heard that there was a study done about the efficacy of using pheromones to calm vicious dogs. The idea was that by using pheromones that facilitate cooperation similar to those released by wolves in packs, they could rehabilitate vicious dogs to be docile. I don't think the study went anywhere, but I suppose it's possible that someone could be doing the reverse and releasing pheromones to trigger the dogs' primal hunting or defense instincts. That would be difficult to control, though. The facilitator would have to also release soothing pheromones to calm the dogs, and those pheromones wouldn’t work right away. That might explain why your killer waited in the shadows. Or he could just have done a flawless job training them to view him as the alpha. If they were ingrained to believe he was an absolute authority, then that might be enough to bridge the gap between the effects of the alarm pheromone and the effects of the soothing pheromone.”

  Faith felt her excitement grow. “That’s wonderful information, David!” she said. “Do you remember the name of the study?”

  “The name? I’m not sure. I know it was published in Vets Weekly about three or four years ago. I didn't pay much attention to it, to be honest. It seemed kind of out there, if you know what I mean.”

  “Well,” Faith replied. “Serial killers do have a reputation for being out there.”

  “Good point,” David conceded. “So if I help you solve the case, do I win a medal or something."

  “Or something,” she said, grinning. “I think you’ll like it even more than a medal.”

  “Wow,” David said, “I should let you turn my life upside down more often. You’re generous when you feel guilty.”

  “Don’t push it,” she said, still grinning. “I’ll see you later, baby.”

  “See you later.”

  She hung up and headed inside. Michael was dressed for bed, but when he saw the look on her face, he said, “I guess I should get dressed again, huh?”

  “Not yet,” Faith said. “In fact, you should nap now and get whatever rest you can. I’ll wake you up if I find something.”

  Michael shook his head. “I won’t be able to rest now that I know you’re onto something. Spill it.”

  Faith shared the details of her conversation with David. When she finished, Michael said, “Wow. What’s with people using chemicals all the time now? What happened to good old-fashioned blunt objects?”

  “New generation, new criminals, I guess,” Faith said. “Still not enough to stump us.”

  “True that,” Michael said. “We’re the originals.”

  Faith opened her computer and started searching for the study. She found it ten minutes later from an issue three years and four months old. She opened the FBI database and plugged in the names of each contributing author. A minute later, she had a hit.

  “Got him,” she said.

  Michael leaned close enough that she could smell his aftershave. It was a familiar smell, but she was excited enough by the lead not to fall into nostalgia.

  “Dr. Karl Vanheusen,” she said. “Who just happens to live right here in Goldwood.”

  “Well, well,” Michael said. “Looks like we’re paying someone a late-night visit.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  He took a deep breath and forced a smile as he knocked on the door. It opened a crack, and a little old lady peeked her head warily at the stranger knocking on her door as dark rapidly settled on Goldwood.

  “Can I help you?” she asked, her voice a mixture of that wariness and annoyance.

  “I’m so sorry to bother you, ma’am,” he said. “I’m looking for my dog. He’s a King Charles Spaniel.”

  She stared blankly at him. He pushed down his irritation and said, “They’re a small breed with long ears and long red-brown fur. His name is Trotter. He got out of his fence this morning, and I’ve been looking for him all day. Have you seen or heard anything at all?”

  He really had been out all day. He had knocked on every door in his neighborhood looking for Trotter. He had explored the local park where he sometimes took Trotter on walks and even risked a return to the central park to look for him. In his desperation, he had even taken Prince Edward out to look for him, but the old dog lost Trotter’s scent at the main boulevard a half-mile from the house.

  At least they hadn’t found a body.

  Yet, a dark voice reminded him.

  He pushed that voice away and repeated, “Please. I love him so much. If you know anything, please tell me.”

  Tears came to his eyes, and those tears finally swayed the older woman. She opened the door a little wider and smiled comfortingly. “Well, I have good news, young man.”

  He perked up. “You found him?”

  “Well, I didn’t find him,” she said, “but the sheriffs did.”

  His heart dropped to his feet. He heard it thumping in his eardrums, and it was only through a massive effort of will that he kept smiling. “R—really?”

  “Yes, I think so,” she said. “I was walking to the local convenience store—I rarely drive, especially when my destination is so close by—and I saw a commotion taking place at a playground.”

  “The playground a block over,” he said.

  “Yes,” she nodded. “I heard sirens and saw a bunch of sheriff’s department cars parked in front of the playground. I didn’t stay long, mind you. I’ve learned from my youth to mind my own business.”

  “But you saw my dog?” he said, “you’re sure of it?”

  “Oh yes,” she said. “I looked over and saw a small dog with beautiful red hair, just like you described. A woman from the FBI was picking him up.”

  The world spun around him. For a terrifying moment, he thought he might actually faint. He took a deep breath and forced himself to focus on the older woman’s eyes.

  She frowned. “Are you all right?”

  “Yes,” he said, his voice a hoarse croak. “I’m just so relieved. FBI? You’re sure?”

 

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