The top of the bin was dented and filled with what I prayed was rainwater, not garbage sludge. I pushed to my feet and took one slow step across, knockback spell prepped to send my stalker reeling back the moment he noticed—

A sharp intake of breath. Above me. I wheeled to catch only a glimpse of someone dressed in black before he plummeted off the other side of the roof. Footsteps pounded pavement. I jumped down and tore off, but by the time I reached the street, it was empty.

I stood on the sidewalk. Looked left. Looked right. Nothing. Shit!

I cast my sensing spell. Someone was still nearby. I turned as a dark figure stepped from the shadows. My hands flew up in a knockback, cut short when I saw the scowling face of Bruyn’s older officer.

I glanced down at his shoes. Loafers. Dark soles. Damn.

“Breaking and entering is a crime, Miss Levine,” he said as he strode over to me.

I looked around at the shops, mostly vacant. “Breaking in ... where? And if I was, I wouldn’t park my bike under a streetlamp.”

His scowl deepened.

“I’m fixing it,” I waved at the tools still scattered around the bike. “The tire blew and they were keeping my bike here while I grabbed a new one from Vancouver. My bike. My tire. My tools. I didn’t break in anywhere.” Well, technically, I did, to get my bike, but I didn’t see the need to mention that.

“You shouldn’t be wandering around alone at night,” he said. “We’ve got a killer on the loose, who likes ’em young and pretty.” He smiled, as if imagining me lying inside a ring of crime-scene tape.

“I didn’t realize how late it’d gotten,” I said. “Thanks.”

I started back to my bike, then turned.

“Did you see anyone else out here?” I asked. “I could have sworn I heard footsteps just a minute ago. That’s why I was looking around.”

“Nobody but me. That’s the way it should be, this time of night.”

He stood watch while I packed up my gear. I thanked him for that, though I knew he was just doing it to make sure I left. And I did. With this cop on the lookout, I couldn’t exactly take off for Cody’s office on the far side of town. And my bruised body was telling me it was ready for bed.

Back at the motel, I grabbed a couple of cookies—one of Paige’s and one from the cult. Paige’s were better, but the others were decent enough. I was pulling off my clothes when my cell phone rang. “Break on Through,” which I’d set as Jesse’s ring tone.

“Yes, I know, it’s late,” he said when I answered. “Did I wake you up?”

“Nope. Just getting ready to turn in.”

“Good. I probably should have just texted, but I found something.” A pause. “Not that you can do anything about it tonight. Never mind. It can wait.”

“Oh, no you don’t. If it’s exciting enough to call me after midnight, I want to hear it.”

He paused. “Okay, so I was going through the files again, making notes, trying to find connections. You know that Alastair Koppel used to live in Columbus, right?”

“He went to high school here, but he never came back after college. His parents moved away ten years ago, when they retired. No other family in town.”

“You’ve done your homework then. Did you notice when he left?”

“Before—no, during college. He was going to college in Portland, so he commuted. That must not have worked out too well. In his third year, he moved out of his parents’ place. Or second year. People weren’t clear on that.”

“It was 1983.”

“Okay, 1983.”

“Anything else happen in 1983?”

“No idea. I wasn’t born.”

“But someone else was. And it seems someone on this investigation is a CSI fan.”

“What?”

“They went a little crazy gathering DNA. They got DNA profiles on Ginny, Brandi, Claire, and just about everyone questioned. Except Cody and his wife, who knew their rights and refused. When I was writing up the file, looking for connections, I saw one, and I faxed the profiles to a buddy to confirm. He just got back to me.”

He stopped. I could feel his excitement buzzing down the line.

“DNA ... 1983 ...” I said. “Shit ... 1983. The year both Ginny and Brandi were born. Our cult leader is Brandi’s father, isn’t he?”

“Not Brandi’s.”

“Ginny’s?”

“Yep. Seems Paula Thompson wasn’t exactly being honest when she said there was no connection between her daughter and Koppel. The cops never noticed it because, obviously, they were only holding the DNA profiles to compare to a potential suspect’s, not crossreferencing—”

My phone blipped, telling me I had an incoming text. It was from Michael.

Lne bsy. Fnd s/t. Cody. Imp. Anyway u can come? 384 SW 3rd Ave. B careful.

“Michael just texted me,” I said to Jesse. “He found something and he’d like me over there. I’m guessing it’s that delivery Cody had scheduled for tonight.”

“Right. You go, then.”

I hung up, called Michael, and got a message that the line was busy-probably as he tried to call me again. When it went to voice mail, I left a message, then I grabbed my jacket and sneakers and hurried out.

twenty-one

Southwest 3rd Avenue. I knew exactly where the street was, because I’d wanted to go there tonight. Cody’s office was on that road, in a generic office block, with a medical and dental clinic on the first floor. Built to service the sawmill, I bet. Give workers a convenient place for daytime appointments and give contract and auxiliary companies a convenient place for their offices. Now though, every entry on the communal front sign was taped over, every decal sign on the windows partly scratched away.

Just past that lone office building, there were a couple of abandoned warehouses. The address Michael had sent led to one.

I killed the engine three buildings back and coasted to a stop. Nothing says “company” like the roar of a motorcycle on an empty road. All was quiet, though. I sat there, helmet off, listening. I cast a sensing spell. Nothing.

I rolled the bike alongside the other warehouse and parked it in the shadows. Then I called Michael again. The phone went straight to voice mail. I switched to text and messaged him a simple I’m here.