“Ma’am?”

“Your baby. Boy or girl?”

He hesitated before replying. “Boy. Five months.”

“Congratulations. How successful have you been keeping him on an organic diet?”

“That’s my wife’s thing, not mine.” He wrinkled his brow. “Do you mind if I ask you how—”

“There’s a bright orange spot on your belt buckle of a shade and texture of Gerber’s baby food organic carrots. No artificial coloring or flavoring, or added starch or salt, which gives it a different appearance and odor than other foods. And your child spit up on your left shoulder when you were holding him this morning.”

He pulled on the shoulder of his uniform shirt. “Aw, man. I thought I got it all off.”

“You did. I can’t see it.”

“Then how did you—”

“I can smell it. Don’t worry, I don’t think most other people can. He spit up his formula, but it’s a brand I’m not familiar with.”

“Parent’s Choice.”

“Thanks. I’ll remember that.” That inability to place it had been bugging her since she had gotten close enough to the officer to detect the scent. It had been the only reason she had bothered to initiate the baby questions. She usually avoided the necessity for explanations if she could do it.

The officer half smiled. “Why would you remember something like that?”

“Because that’s what I do.”

She pulled on the gloves and walked over the stone pavers to the front door. The house was nestled in a thick clump of trees, almost as if the space had been hollowed out for the two-story structure. Kendra opened the front door and stepped inside.

Her first impression was that the house was very dark, despite the fact that every lamp and light fixture was turned on. The dense foliage outside blocked most of the sunlight, and the dark brown walls kept light reflections to a minimum. The dark Brazilian wood floors leached much of the remaining illumination.

She had read much of Doane’s case file at the Atlanta Airport and knew that he lived alone. Indeed, there were none of the subtle clues that indicated there was more than one sensibility at work in the décor and arrangement of personal items.

The half-open drawers and slightly askew furniture were easy tip-offs of other recent searches of the house; but otherwise, things seemed to be in order.

Perhaps in too much order, she thought. As she glanced through the drawers, there was no mail, personal papers, or anything that left behind any real imprint of the man who had lived there. Did he really live this way, or had he deliberately swept away his footsteps behind him?

She climbed the narrow wooden stairs to the upper level, which contained only two bedrooms, a bathroom, and a loft area that overlooked the main floor. Doane had obviously used the loft as an office, with a desk, keyboard, printer, copier, and a stand for what probably held a laptop computer. Either Doane had taken it away himself, or the Feds’ computer forensics teams were combing the hard drives in a lab.

Kendra walked into the master bedroom, which was furnished only by a bed, a chest of drawers, and a television cabinet. Kendra tugged on the front door of the TV cabinet and peered inside.

No TV. Something else.

She swung the door open wide and just stared for a long moment. Instead of a television set, the cabinet held a veritable shrine. Centered in the middle was a large portrait of a young, handsome man with the coldest eyes Kendra had ever seen. It had to be Kevin, Doane’s son. The picture had obviously been taken during Kevin’s military career. Surrounding it were news clippings, military badges, and award certificates, some dating all the way back to high school.

Kendra found herself recoiling at the sight of Kevin’s flashing smile and those blue eyes that should have been attractive but were instead glittering with a kind of icy arrogance. It wasn’t just because she’d been told what he had done, she realized. There was something intrinsically evil about that face, that expression.

Shake it off.

She had come face-to-face with bad people before, people capable of the most horrifying atrocities. Why should this simple photograph inspire anything other than revulsion?

Yet it did. And she was fiercely relieved that Kevin was no longer alive to inflict pain and suffering on so many children and their families.

But as long as his father was out there with Eve as his captive, Kevin’s horrible legacy would continue.

Detach. Scan. Analyze.

Her eyes flicked from one item to the next, trying to pick up anything that could help complete the father/son picture forming in her mind. Kevin had been left-handed, like his father. They had vacationed at least three times in Salt Lake City, twice in some ghost town, and Kevin never owned anything other than an American-made car. Doane dabbled as a carpenter, farmer, and auto mechanic, and his son was an amateur musician, a guitarist, probably self-taught and not very good, judging from the placement of his hands. Both were avid hunters and fishermen and comfortable with firearms. The son favored handguns, the dad liked rifles.

She studied the display a moment longer. There had to be something more here. Maybe in one of the photos, the newspaper stories or—

The cabinet itself. It was something Doane had probably made himself, she realized. It was similar in style and construction to pieces shown in photos of Kevin’s home, including a coffee table Doane gave him on his birthday. Both featured a signature flourish of Doane’s, a lathe-cut spiral design on the corners.

This cabinet appeared relatively new, Kendra thought. Where had he made it? She hadn’t seen a workshop. Had he rented a place somewhere?

She closed the cabinet door, happy finally to be hiding Kevin’s face from view. She stepped into the closet and immediately realized that a small suitcase had been taken, judging from the footprint left on the dusty floor. She scanned the hanging clothes, taking special notice of the few empty hangers. Doane had probably taken enough clothing to last him for at least a week.

She left the room and descended the stairs, this time stopping to look out the tall windows that lined the back of the house.

There, in the distance, was what appeared to be a small toolshed.

Which might be the answer as to where Doane carried out his woodworking projects. She reached the bottom of the stairs and quickly exited the back door. She crossed the large unfenced backyard and approached the toolshed, which was actually larger than it had appeared from the house. It was almost the size of a one-car garage though there was no easy automobile access on the uneven ground.

Kendra stopped. The toolshed’s latch had been recently broken, and the door was ajar. The FBI’s handiwork? Possibly, but not likely. The FBI was much more efficient. It would have been a simple matter to cut the lock, which was how they usually handled a padlocked door.

She pulled open the door. It groaned on its weather-beaten hinges.

She felt inside for a switch, flipped up, and …

Nothing. No power, or the bulbs were shot.

Fine. She was comfortable in the darkness. Sometimes she still preferred it. And she had her phone’s illuminated screen to help her.

She turned on her phone, which gave her a view of only a few feet ahead of her. Her footsteps echoed enough to let her know that the structure was largely empty, with perhaps a few scattered pieces.

Up ahead. A shadow on the right. Table saw. Next to it, a short stack of lumber.

She squinted and made out a series of saw blades hanging on a peg board.

Something moved in the corner.

She stopped short.

A rodent? No, bigger.

Breathing. Low, rhythmic.

Not an animal.

Human.

Kendra switched off her phone and quickly moved several paces to the right.

More movement. Footsteps.