It was possible.

Despite her instincts, Jessica finally admitted it to herself. If she didn’t know Patrick, she would be leading the charge to arrest him, based on one immutable fact:

He knew all five girls.

FRIDAY, 8:55 PM

Byrne stood in the ICU watching Lauren Semanski.

The ER team had told him that Lauren had a lot of methamphetamine in her system, that she was a chronic user, and that when her abductor had injected her with the midazolam, it did not have quite

the effect it might have had if Lauren had not been full of a powerful stimulant.

Although they had not yet been able to talk to her, it was clear that Lauren Semanski’s injuries were consistent with those that might have been incurred by someone leaping from a moving vehicle. Incredibly, although her injuries were numerous and serious, except for the toxicity of the drugs in her system, none was life threatening.

Byrne sat down next to her bed.

He knew that Patrick Farrell was a friend of Jessica’s. He suspected that there was probably more to their relationship than mere friendship, but he would leave that for Jessica to tell him.

There had been so many false clues and blind alleys in this case so far. He was not sure that Patrick Farrell fit the mold, either. When he had met the man at the Rodin Museum crime scene, he had not gotten a feeling of any kind.

Still, that didn’t seem to matter much these days. Chances were good that he could shake hands with Ted Bundy and not have a clue. Everything pointed to Patrick Farrell. He’d seen many an arrest warrant issued on much less.

He took Lauren’s hand in his. He closed his eyes. The pain settled above his eyes, high and hot and murderous. Soon, the images detonated in his mind, shunting the breath in his lungs, and the door at the end of his mind swung wide...

FRIDAY, 8:55 PM

Scholars believe that a storm rose over Calvary on the day of Christ’s death, that the sky grew dark over the valley as He hung upon the cross.

Lauren Semanski had been very strong. Last year, when she tried to take her own life, I had looked at her and wondered why such a determined young woman would do such a thing. Life is a gift. Life is a blessing.Why had she tried to throw it all away?

Why had any of them tried to throw it away?

Nicole had lived with the ridicule of her classmates, an alcoholic father. Tessa had survived her mother’s lingering death, and faced her father’s slow

descent.

Bethany had been the object of scorn for her weight.

Kristi had problems with anorexia.

When I had treated them, I knew that I was cheating the Lord.They had set

themselves on a path and I had diverted them.

Nicole and Tessa and Bethany and Kristi.

Then there was Lauren. Lauren had survived her parents’ accident only

to walk out to the car one night, start the engine. She had brought her stuffed Opus with her, the plush little penguin toy her mother had given her for Christmas in the fifth year of her life.

Today she had resisted the midazolam. She was probably back on the meth. When she punched open the door we were moving at approximately thirty miles an hour. She jumped out. Just like that.There was far too much traffic for me to turn around and get her. I had to just let her go.

It is too late to change plans.

It is the Hour of None.

And although Lauren was the final mystery, another girl would do, one

with shiny curls and a halo of innocence around her head.

The wind picks up as I pull over, cut the engine. They predict a massive storm.There will be another storm tonight, a dark reckoning of the soul.

The light inside Jessica’s house . . .

. . . is bright and warm and inviting, a solitary ember in the dying coals of dusk.

He sits outside in a vehicle, sheltered from the rain. In his hands is a rosary. He thinks about Lauren Semanski, and how she got away. She was the fifth girl, the fifth mystery, the final piece in his masterwork.

But Jessica is here. He has business with her, too.

Jessica and her little girl.

He checks the items he has prepared: the hypodermic needles, the carpenter’s chalk, the sail maker’s needle and thread.

He prepares to step into the wicked night . . .

The imagery came and went, teasing with clarity, like the vision of a drowning man looking up from the bottom of a chlorinated pool. The pain in Byrne’s head was fierce. He walked out of ICU and into the parking lot, got into his car. He checked his weapon. Rain pelted his windshield.

He started his car and headed to the expressway.

Sophie was terrified of thunderstorms. Jessica knew where she’d gotten it, too. It was genetic. When Jessica was small, she used to hide under the steps at their house on Catharine Street whenever it thundered. If it got really bad, she used to crawl under the bed. Sometimes she would bring a candle. Until the day she set the mattress on fire.

They had eaten dinner in front of the television again. Jessica had been too tired to object. It didn’t matter anyway. She had picked at her food, disinterested in such a routine event when her world was cracking at the seams. Her stomach churned with the events of the day. How could she have been so wrong about Patrick?

Was she wrong about Patrick?

The images of what had been done to these young women would not leave her alone.

She checked the answering machine. There were no messages.

Vincent was staying with his brother. She picked up the phone and dialed the number. Well, two-thirds of it. Then she put the phone down.

Shit.

She did the dishes by hand, just to give her hands something to do. She poured a glass of wine, poured it out. She made a cup of tea, let it get cold.

Somehow, she’d made it until Sophie’s bedtime. Outside, thunder and lightning raged. Inside, Sophie was scared.

Jessica had tried all the usual remedies. She had offered to read her a story. No luck. She had asked Sophie if she wanted to watch Finding Nemo again. No luck. She didn’t even want to watch The Little Mermaid. This was rare. Jessica had offered to color her Peter Cottontail coloring book with her (no), offered to sing Wizard of Oz songs (no), offered to put decals on the colored eggs in the kitchen (no).

In the end, she just tucked Sophie into bed and sat with her. Every time there was a crack of thunder, Sophie looked at her as if it were the end of the world.

Jessica tried to think of anything but Patrick. So far, she had been unsuccessful.