Dusk was falling by the time Riley pulled into Glendive. It had been a long day, and she was feeling desperate. Time was passing much too fast, and so was any possibility of finding any life-saving clues.
Glendive was the eighth town on her route. In every town so far, Riley had gone into stores that sold toys and dolls, questioning anyone who would talk to her. She felt sure that she hadn't found the store she was looking for.
Nobody in any of the stores remembered seeing the women in the photographs she had showed them. Of course, the women in question were similar in age and appearance to a dozen others that a storekeeper might meet in any given week. To make matters worse, none of the dolls Riley saw on display struck her as the likely inspiration for the arrangement of the victims.
When she drove into Glendive, Riley had an odd sense of déjà vu. The main street looked uncannily like those in most of the other towns, with a brick church flanked on one side by a movie theater and on the other side by a drug store. All these towns were starting to blur together in her exhausted mind.
What was I thinking? she asked herself.
Last night she had been desperate to sleep, and she had taken her prescription tranquilizers. That hadn't been a bad idea. But following it with a couple of shots of whiskey had been unwise. Now she had a severe headache, but she had to keep going.
As she parked her car near the store she planned to check out, she saw that daylight was waning. She sighed with discouragement. She had one more town and one more store to check out tonight. It would be at least three hours before she could get back to Fredericksburg to pick up April at Ryan's house. How many nights had she been late now?
She took out her cell phone and dialed the house number. She hoped against hope that Gabriela would answer. Instead, she heard Ryan's voice.
"What is it, Riley?" he asked.
"Ryan," Riley sputtered, "I'm terribly sorry, but—"
"You're going to be late again," Ryan said, finishing her sentence.
"Yeah," Riley said. "I'm sorry."
A silence fell.
"Look, it's really important," Riley finally said. "A woman's life is in danger. I've got to do what I'm doing."
"I've heard it before," Ryan said in a disapproving tone. "It's always a matter of life and death. Well, go ahead. Take care of it. It's just that I'm starting to wonder why you bother to pick up April at all. She might as well just stay right here."
Riley felt her throat tighten. Just as she had feared, Ryan sounded like he was gearing up for a custody fight. And it wasn't out of any sincere desire to raise April. He was too busy living it up to concern himself with his daughter. All he wanted was to cause Riley pain.
"I'll come and get her," Riley said, trying to steady her voice. "We can talk about all this later."
She ended the call.
Then she stepped out of the car and walked the short distance to the store—Debbie's Doll Boutique, it was called. She went inside and saw that the name was a little presumptuous for a store that sold pretty standard, brand-name merchandise.
Nothing quaint or fancy here, she realized.
It seemed unlikely that this was the place she was looking for. The store she had in mind had to be at least a little bit special, a place that inspired a word-of-mouth reputation that attracted customers from surrounding towns. Still, Riley had to check this one out to be absolutely sure.
Riley walked up to the counter, where a tall, elderly woman with thick glasses and birdlike features was at the cash register.
"I'm Special Agent Riley Paige, FBI," she said, once again feeling naked without her badge. So far, other clerks had been willing to talk to her without it. She hoped that this woman would as well.
Riley pulled out four photographs and put them on the counter.
"I wonder if you've seen any of these women," she said, pointing to the pictures one by one. "You probably wouldn't remember Margaret Geraty—she would have been here two years ago. But Eileen Rogers would have come here about six months ago, and Reba Frye would have bought a doll six weeks ago. This last woman, Cindy MacKinnon, would have been here late last week."
The woman peered at the pictures closely.
"Oh, dear," she said. "My eyes aren't what they used to be. Let me take a closer look."
She picked up a magnifying glass and examined the photos. Meanwhile, Riley noticed that there was someone else in the store. He was a rather homely man of average height and build. He was wearing a T-shirt and well-worn jeans. Riley might well have overlooked him if it weren't for one important detail.
He was carrying a bunch of roses.
These roses were real, but the combination of roses and dolls could signal a killer's obsession.
The man wasn't looking at her. He had surely heard her announce herself as FBI. Was he avoiding eye contact?
Just then the woman's voice piped up.
"I don't think I've seen any of them," she said. "But then, like I said, I don't see at all well. And I've never been any good with faces. I'm sorry not to be of more help."
"It's all right," Riley said, putting the photos back in her purse. "Thank you for your time."
She turned to look again at the man, who was now browsing a nearby rack. Her pulse quickened.
It definitely could be him, she thought. If he buys a doll, I'll know it's him.
But it wouldn't do for her to stand here and watch him. If he was guilty, he wasn't likely to give himself away. He might slip away from her.
She smiled at the storekeeper and left.
Outside, Riley walked a short distance down the block and stood there waiting. Only a few minutes passed before the store's door opened and the man came out. He was still holding the roses in one hand. In the other he held a bag of newly purchased merchandise. He turned and started walking along the sidewalk, moving away from Riley.
Taking long strides, Riley walked after him. She assessed his size and build. She was slightly taller than he was, and possibly a good bit stronger. She was probably better trained. She wasn't going to let him get away.
Just as he was passing a narrow alley, the man must have heard steps behind him. He turned suddenly and glanced back at her. He stepped to one side, as though to get out of her way.
Riley pushed him sideways into the alley—pushed him hard and roughly. The space was narrow, dirty, and dim.
Startled, the man dropped both the package and the roses. The flowers scattered across the pavement. He raised an arm as though to ward her off.
She took hold of that arm and twisted it behind his back, pushing him face-first against a brick wall.
"I'm Special Agent Riley Paige, FBI," she snapped. "Where are you holding Cindy MacKinnon? Is she still alive?"
The man was shaking from head to foot.
"Who?" he asked, his voice trembling. "I don't know what you mean."
"Don't play games with me," Riley snapped, feeling more naked than ever without her badge—and especially without her gun. How was she supposed to bring this guy in without drawing a weapon? She was a long way from Quantico, and she didn't even have a partner to help her.
"Lady, I don't know what this is all about," the man said, bursting into tears.
"What are these roses for?" Riley demanded. "Who are they for?"
"My daughter!" the man cried out. "Her first piano recital is tomorrow."
Riley was still holding him by his right arm. The man's left hand was flat against the wall. Riley suddenly noticed something that hadn't caught her eye until now.
The man was wearing a wedding ring. She'd been all but sure that the murderer wasn't married.
"Piano recital?" she said.
"Mrs. Tully's students," he cried. "You can ask anyone in town."
Riley loosened her grip a little.
The man went on, "I bought her roses to celebrate. For when she takes her bow. I bought her a doll too."
Riley released the man's arm and walked over to where he had dropped the package. She picked it up and pulled out its contents.
It was a doll, all right—one of those teenage-girl dolls that always offended and disturbed her, all sexed up with full lips and an ample bosom. But as creepy as it was, it looked nothing like the kind of doll she'd seen near Daggett. That doll was of a little girl. So was the doll she'd seen in the picture of Cindy MacKinnon and her niece—all frilly and golden-haired and dressed in pink.
She had the wrong man. She gasped for breath.
"I'm sorry," she said to the man. "I was wrong. I'm so, so sorry."
Still shaking with shock and confusion, the man was picking up the roses. Riley bent over to help him.
"No! No!" the man exclaimed. "Don't help! Stay away! Just—get away from me!"
Riley turned and walked out of the alley, leaving the forlorn man to gather up his daughter's roses and doll. How could she have let this happen? Why did she go so far with it? Why had she not noticed the man's wedding ring the moment she saw him?
The answer was simple. She was exhausted, and her head was splitting. She wasn't thinking straight.
As she walked dazedly down the sidewalk, a neon storefront sign for a bar caught her eye. She wanted a drink. She felt like she needed a drink.
She went into the dimly lit place and sat down at the bar. The bartender was busy waiting on another customer. Riley wondered what the man she had just accosted was doing right now. Was he calling the police? Was she about to be apprehended herself? That would certainly be a bitter irony.
But she guessed that the man probably wouldn't call the police. After all, he'd have a hard time explaining what had happened. He might even feel embarrassed at having been attacked by a woman.
Anyway, if he had called the police, and they were on their way to get her, it wouldn't do to make a run for it. If she had to, she'd face the consequences of her actions. And maybe she deserved to be arrested. She remembered her conversation with Mike Nevins, how he'd drawn her attention to her own feelings of worthlessness.
Maybe I'm right to feel worthless, she thought. Maybe it would have been better if Peterson had just killed me.
The bartender stepped toward her.
"What will you have, ma'am?" he asked.
"A bourbon on the rocks," Riley said. "Make that a double."
"Coming right up," the bartender said.
She reminded herself that it wasn't like her to drink on the job. Her agonizing recovery from PTSD had been marked by occasional bouts of intense drinking, but she'd thought that was behind her.
She took a sip. The rough drink felt comforting going down.
She still had one more town to visit, and at least one more person to interview. But she needed something to calm her nerves.
Well, she thought with a bitter smile, at least I'm not officially on duty.
She finished the drink quickly, then talked herself out of ordering another. The toy store in the next town would close soon, and she had to get there right away. Time was running out for Cindy MacKinnon—if it hadn't run out already.
As she left the bar, Riley sensed that she was walking on the edge of a familiar abyss. She had thought she'd left all that horror, pain, and self-loathing far behind. Was it catching up with her again?
How much longer, she wondered, could she evade its deadly pull?
