‘Oh, what the hell,’ he whispered as he decided that it was worth a shot.

Garcia wouldn’t find a better collection of art magazines and articles on Laura Mitchell than the ones they’d uncovered inside the dark room in James Smith’s apartment. Smith seemed to have collected everything that was ever published on her. He was still under custody, and his apartment was still seized by police as part of an ongoing investigation.

Garcia stood by the door to the dimly lit collage room, staring at the magazines and newspapers piled just about everywhere.

‘Damn!’ he whispered to himself. ‘This is gonna take me forever.’

In fact, it took him two hours and three piles of magazines and journals. Laura Mitchell’s last interview had been with Contemporary Painters magazine, eleven months ago. It was a small article – less than fifteen hundred words.

He almost choked when he read the lines.

‘Sonofabitch.’

Every hair on his body stood on end. He knew that this kind of coincidence just didn’t exist.

As he rushed out of the building, his cell phone rang in his pocket. He checked the display window before answering it.

‘Robert, I was just about to call you. You’re not gonna believe what I just found out—’

‘Carlos, listen,’ Hunter interrupted urgently, ‘I think I know who we’re after.’

‘What? Really? Who?’

‘I have no doubt he doesn’t go by his real name any more, but his original name was Andrew Harper. I need you to get in touch with Operations and the research team immediately. We need everything and anything we can get on him.’

Garcia stopped walking and frowned at nothing. His memory searching for the name. ‘Wait a second,’ he remembered, ‘isn’t that the name of the kid Stephen told us about on the phone? The one who was murdered by his father?’

‘Yep, that’s him, and I don’t know how he got away, but I don’t think he was murdered that day.’

‘Come again?’

‘I think that somehow he survived. And I think he was in the house when it happened, Carlos.’

‘What?’

‘I’ll tell you everything when I get back to LA. I’m at the airport now. I’ll land at LAX in about two hours. But I think the kid was hiding in the house.’

‘No way.’

‘He watched his father violate his mother’s body, stitch her shut, write a blood message on the wall and then kill her before blowing his own head off . . .’

Garcia stayed silent.

‘I think the kid saw everything. And now he’s repeating history.’

One Hundred

Clouds were gathering when Andrew Harper turned his van into State Highway 170, going north. From the back seat of the brown station wagon in front of him, a kid of about nine smiled and waved at him, an ice-cream cone in his hand. It wasn’t as if Andrew ever needed reminders for his mind to take him back to that day, they were everywhere he looked, but at the sight of the kid and his ice cream, Andrew twitched like a cow shaking off flies as vivid images flooded his memory. In an instant, he was transported back to his father’s truck that Sunday morning. His father had driven just a couple of blocks before stopping at that gas station.

‘I have a surprise for you,’ Ray Harper said, turning to face little Andrew who was sitting in the passenger’s seat. His lips smiled but his eyes betrayed him. ‘But first, let me go get you some ice cream.’

Andrew’s eyes widened. ‘Ice cream? Mom doesn’t like me to have ice cream. She said that since my cold, ice cream isn’t good for me, Dad.’

‘I know she doesn’t, but you like ice cream, don’t you?’

Andrew nodded eagerly.

‘One single scoop can’t hurt. This is a special day, and if you like ice cream, you can have ice cream. What flavor?’

Andrew thought about it for a beat. ‘Chocolate brownie,’ he said, his happiness almost oozing through his pores.

A few minutes later Ray came back to the car with two cones. Andrew bit into his as if the whole thing would vanish in thin air if he didn’t eat it immediately. Less than a minute later he had finished his cone and started licking his fingers.

Ray had just finished his ice cone when a single, powerful sneeze exploded out of Andrew, and with it came blood. Andrew didn’t manage to cover his nose in time and blood splattered everywhere: dashboard, windshield, door, but mainly all over his shirt. The nosebleed that followed was short but intense, enough to drip onto his trousers and shoes. Ray instantly reached for Andrew, tipped his head back slightly and used the edge of Andrew’s shirt to clear the smudges around his nose and mouth. The bleeding stopped within two minutes.

‘OK,’ Ray said with an apologetic frown. ‘Maybe it wasn’t such a good idea after all.’

Andrew smiled before looking down at his bloody shirt and cringing.

‘It’s OK, kiddo,’ Ray said, putting a hand on the kid’s head. ‘I said I had a surprise for you, remember?’ He reached behind his seat, and from under his coat he retrieved a gift-wrapped box. ‘This is for you.’

Andrew’s eyes lit up. ‘But it’s not my birthday and it’s not Christmas yet, Dad.’

‘This is a pre-Christmas present. You deserve it, son.’ Sadness masked Ray’s face for an instant. ‘Go ahead, open it. I know you’ll like it.’

Andrew ripped the paper from around the box as fast as he could. He loved presents, though he never got many of them. His whole face morphed into one huge smile. The top item was a brand new T-shirt. On its front was a large Wolverine print, Andrew’s favorite character from the X-Men Marvel comics.

‘WOW!’ was all he could say.

‘Go ahead, check the next one,’ Ray urged him.

Andrew could tell what it would be even before opening the box – a new pair of trainers, also covered in Wolverine and X-Men prints. Andrew looked at his father, half-shocked.

‘But, Dad, these are really expensive.’ He knew his family had been struggling with money lately.

Ray’s eyes became glassy. ‘You deserve a lot more, son.’ He paused for an instant. ‘I’m sorry I could never give you all that you deserve.’ He kissed Andrew’s forehead again. ‘Why don’t you try everything on? That way you can get rid of that dirty shirt.’

Andrew hesitated.

Ray knew how shy his son was. ‘I’ll go and get us a couple of sodas and you can get changed, OK?’

Andrew waited until his father had reentered the gas station’s shop and quickly stripped off his bloody shirt and threw it in the back seat. The scar on his chest from last night stuck out from the other ones across his torso because it was so red and itchy. He rubbed it gently with the tips of his fingers. He’d learned never to use his fingernails in case the wounds started bleeding again. By the time Ray returned to the truck with a paper bag and two bottles of Mountain Dew, Andrew’s favorite soda, he was dressed in his new shirt and trainers.

‘They look great on you, kiddo,’ Ray said, handing him a bottle.

Andrew smiled. ‘I’ll have to take the shoes off, Dad. They’ll get dirty when we get to the lake.’

Something in Ray’s eyes changed. His whole being was filled with grief and sorrow. ‘I have to tell you something, son. We’re not gonna go fishing today.’

The sadness was mirrored on Andrew’s face. ‘But Dad, Mom said that if I caught a big fish today, you wouldn’t fight any more. She promised.’

Tears returned to Ray’s eyes but he held them there. ‘Oh, honey, we won’t fight any more. Never again.’ He placed a hand on the boy’s nape. ‘Not after today.’

Andrew’s eyes glistened with happiness. ‘Really? You promise, Dad?’