Hotchner had summoned a medivac chopper to be in the area. If they found Shuler alive, the man would need immediate medical attention.

Lights flashing, sirens wailing, they sped through the muggy night into Indiana. They crossed the border, still flying, getting off the expressway and hurtling down Highway 20. Hotchner and Prentiss were the first to peel off, then twenty miles later, Reid and the detectives went their way.

As they rode, Morgan behind the wheel, the cloudless night bright with stars and a nearly full moon, Rossi could only hope they weren’t too late.

Morgan said, “You know, you alter that timeline by as little as an hour, and we could still be in the wrong state. The victim could just as easily be buried in Wisconsin— that’s only a little over an hour away from that motel, too.”

“If the timeline is wrong,” Rossi said. “But it isn’t.”

“Sound pretty sure of yourself.”

“When I joined this team, the knock on me was that I was too much of a loner, too used to doing things my own way. Now, that we’ve solved something as a team, you’re second-guessing my role? I been doing this a long time, Morgan, and here’s a tip you didn’t ask for but are going to get: you have to learn to trust your talent."

"I do trust it."

“You think you do, but you really need to believethat you’re right.”

“And you,” Morgan said, “need to learn to trust the team.”

“I’m working on that,” Rossi said, nothing negative in his voice.

Morgan slowed as they approached a driveway on the left roadside. “I think this is it.…”

As if to confirm his belief, a FOR SALE sign came into view beyond a small hill. Morgan turned in and followed the gravel road toward a dilapidated white house and faded red barn that stood at the top of a hill.

Rossi’s cell phone chirped. He pulled it off his belt and answered.

“Hotchner. We got nothing at our site, and Reid just called to say they struck out too. How are you two doing?”

“Just pulling in,” Rossi said. “Let you know.” He clicked off, then said to Morgan, “Down to us now.”

Obviously vacant, the house was a tall, two-story box that looked hadn’t seen a coat of paint since the sixties. The barn looked little better. Off to the left of the house, across a side yard, a path worn through it between the buildings, one door hung slightly open.

“Let’s check there first,” Morgan said.

Rossi nodded.

They got out of the SUV, crossed the yard and stood on either side of the open door, their guns drawn. The suspect was in custody, but an unknown accomplice was always a possibility. They nodded to each other, then went in low and fast, each fanning their guns around looking for a threat.

When each was sure his side was clean, he said, “Clear.”

The only thing left in the barn was a navy blue Ford Bronco, locked up tight. They checked in the windows and saw nothing.

Rossi asked, “Where the hell did this vehicle come from?”

Morgan checked the plate. “Illinois. I can get Garcia to run it.”

“Do it.”

Morgan made the call, short and sweet.

They moved behind the house and, using their Maglites in the darkness, quickly found the PVC pipe sticking up out of the dirt.

“Bingo!” Morgan said.

Rossi’s eyes flared. “We might have thought to bring a goddamn shovel.…”

But Morgan spotted the handle sticking out from behind a bush and then they did have a shovel, Dryden’s shovel most likely.

Without a word, Morgan grabbed it and started digging near the pipe. The night was hot and it didn’t take long until his face and bare arms glistened with sweat. He threw dirt over his shoulder, Rossi watching. When Morgan was down a couple of feet, they changed places and Rossi took over, his pace slower but more steady.

The sun was coming up now, the shadow of the house still making it hard for them to see.

Before long, the shovel touched something harder than dirt, but considerably less sturdy than plywood.

“Something,” Rossi said.

They used their hands now, pushing dirt out of the way until they uncovered a shoe with a foot in it connecting to a still mostly buried leg.

“Hell!” Morgan said. “Son of a bitch didn’t even use a box!”

Rossi said, “Wait a minute. The shoe is a Rocky. Copshoe. This isn’t the victim.…”

They dug faster now, uncovering the rest of the body until they were looking down at a man dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, his head shaved clean, exit wound in his back.

“Denson,” Morgan said.

Rossi grunted. “Poor bastard didfind the killer before we did.…”

And now Dryden’s math made more sense: this was his twelfth victim.

Morgan’s cell phone rang and both profilers jumped a little.

“Yeah,” Morgan said into it. “…thanks.” He clicked off. “Garcia says the Bronco belongs to a Jacob Denson.”

Any sense that this was a crime scene was obviously secondary, since saving a life took precedence over preserving evidence. With care and something near reverence, they lifted the deceased detective’s body out of the grave and laid him carefully on the ground. Morgan did the digging as they went back to work. He had gone another half foot down when he hit something that clunked.

The box.

They dug even more quickly, Rossi pitching in with his hands as they uncovered the top of the box. When its lid was fairly well cleared, Morgan used the shovel to pry a corner loose and—with all the strength of both men—tore the nailed lid off.

Inside lay a figure curled in a fetal position, clad only in white boxers and a sleeveless white undershirt.

“Mr. Shuler,” Rossi said. “Mr. Shuler!”

The figure did not move.

Morgan gingerly lifted the man out of the box, handing him up to Rossi, who lay him out on the ground and checked for a pulse.

“Faint,” Rossi said, “but it’s there.…”

Morgan whipped out his cell phone.

“Hotch! We’ve got him, but we need the medivac now!”

Half an hour later, with Shuler stabilized but in serious condition, the chopper took off for the nearest hospital. The rest of the team had caught up with them. They all stood over the body of Jake Denson, waiting for the coroner’s wagon that would haul the detective to the morgue.

Rossi said, “He couldn’t let go of the case.”

Hotchner gave him a look. “Could you have?”

“Probably not.”

Prentiss asked, “How did he end up out here?”

Hotchner said, “Most likely he held back some information from us.”

Reid said, “Something convinced him Dryden was the killer—must have followed him out here somehow.”

Morgan gave Rossi a grim smile. “See what happens to loners, Dave?”

Rossi said, “I see what happens when a decent detective lets emotion take over. If Denson had come to us with whatever he had, other people would still be alive.”

“Including,” Hotchner said, “Denson.”

Epilogue

August 8 Learjet

“Take hope from

the heart of man,”

the novelist Ouida wrote,

“and you make him

a beast of prey.”

   The plane banked to the east to glide through the night, the lights of Chicago receding. They’d bid Lorenzon and Tovar quick good-byes at the airport and felt the bittersweet pang of leaving behind others who’d fought with them in the trenches. Now they were all whipped, the cabin silent, everyone asleep except Rossi and Reid. The young man played chess, spinning the small board on the table in front of him after every move.