CHAPTER NINETEEN
Riley stared at the blank screen of her tablet, waiting for everyone else to leave the conference room.
She’d told Ann Marie to go on out with the others.
Riley knew that she needed to be alone when she made this singular connection with someone who understood the twisted patterns of a killer’s mind.
The irony wasn’t lost on her: consulting one murderer to catch another.
When the door clicked shut behind the last to exit, she sat quietly for a long moment.
Then she initiated the call. The tablet came to life with notification of a secure connection, then Timothy Lancaster’s face appeared.
The prison’s harsh lighting cast unflattering shadows across his features but his eyes remained calculating and intense—the eyes of a mathematician who saw the world as a series of problems to be solved.
“Agent Paige,” he said, his voice carrying that familiar academic tone. “I was beginning to think you’d forgotten about me.”
“No such luck,” Riley replied, adjusting her position in the uncomfortable chair. “We’ve had a development. The killer made another move, but this time his target got away.”
Timothy’s eyebrows lifted slightly—the barest hint of surprise from a man who typically maintained rigid control over his expressions. “Interesting. That wasn’t part of his pattern before.”
“No, it wasn’t. A driver named Corey McLaughlin managed to escape.
He was making deliveries when someone—presumably a man named Tony Bartlett—attacked him.
McLaughlin escaped, but the attacker left another code in McLaughlin’s truck.
” She glanced down at her notes, then read clearly: “CG, LB-BG-ND-KA, HG, TA-ZF-YE-KG.”
Timothy didn’t reach for paper or make any visible calculations. His eyes simply unfocused slightly as he processed the information internally, his mind performing computations that few people could do quickly.
“37.2741 degrees North, 80.0657 degrees West,” he said after barely fifteen seconds.
Riley blinked. “That was fast.”
“The algorithm is elegant,” Timothy replied with an unmistakable note of admiration.
“Once you understand its architecture, the solution presents itself rather quickly. But I do have a question for you. You say you know the killer’s identity—his name is Tony, I believe you said. Why don’t you just arrest him?”
“We have no idea where he is.”
“Ah. A pity.”
Timothy tilted his head, a slight smile visible now. “Tell me, Agent Paige—do you still harbor suspicions about my involvement in these crimes?”
The question caught Riley off guard. She studied his expression through the screen, searching for any hint of deception or manipulation. After a moment, she decided on honesty.
“No, I don’t.”
“Well, that’s a relief,” Timothy replied with exaggerated cheerfulness. “Prison time is tedious enough without being suspected of additional murders.”
Riley didn’t smile at his attempt at humor. “I assume we have the prison’s security system to thank for your airtight alibi.”
“Among other things.” Timothy’s expression shifted, becoming more businesslike. “I believe I’ve fulfilled my mathematical obligation for the day. If you’ll excuse me—”
“Wait,” Riley said quickly. “I want to ask you something first.”
Timothy paused, curiosity flaring in his eyes. “Yes?”
Riley hesitated. What she was about to ask crossed a line—not procedurally, perhaps, but ethically.
Seeking one killer’s insights into another felt like opening a door that should remain firmly shut.
But Tony Bartlett had already killed two people and tried to kill a third, and she needed every advantage she could get.
“I’d like your assessment of this killer,” she said finally. “Given the... similarities in your crimes.”
Timothy didn’t immediately respond. A pleased look spread across his features as though he’d just been offered an unexpected gift.
“My assessment,” he repeated, savoring the words. “Where shall I begin?”
Riley waited, watching as Timothy gathered his thoughts.
“First and foremost, he’s a chess player.”
Riley wasn’t particularly surprised by that insight. Bob Montgomery’s words about the Bartlett twins came back to her instantly: “They’d bring a miniature chess set, and we’d play each other. They always beat me.”
“Chess isn’t just a game for minds like ours, Agent Paige,” Timothy added. “It’s a framework for understanding reality. Every move creates new possibilities while eliminating others. Each piece has defined capabilities and limitations.”
“And people become the pieces,” Riley said quietly.
“Precisely.” Timothy leaned closer to the camera. “Do you play chess, Agent Paige?”
“Some. Not especially well.”
“Then you should understand what you’re up against. A mediocre chess player might see two or three moves ahead.
A good one, perhaps five or six.” Timothy paused.
“But the truly dangerous players—the ones with mathematical minds like Tony’s—we see dozens of potential futures branching from each decision.
We calculate probabilities, anticipate responses, and guide the game toward an inevitable conclusion that only we can see. ”
“You’re suggesting he’s already planned his endgame.”
“Oh, most certainly. But don’t expect him to follow a predictable pattern. He’ll be looking for ways to surprise you.
“But he didn’t anticipate McLaughlin getting away.”
“Didn’t he? Are you sure that wasn’t part of the design?”
Riley frowned. The idea that Tony might have intentionally let McLaughlin escape seemed far-fetched, but she couldn’t dismiss it entirely.
“But I suppose it’s more likely that his plans simply went awry,” Timothy admitted with a shrug.
“If so, then you can be sure that his pride has been wounded. And that makes him all the more dangerous. There’s something else you should understand.
Despite our rational, mathematical minds—or perhaps because of them—people like Tony Bartlett and myself often harbor deeply irrational beliefs. ”
“Meaning?”
“Superstition. The human brain is designed to find patterns, even where none exist. Those of us who excel at pattern recognition are, ironically, even more susceptible to seeing meaning in coincidence.”
Riley considered this. “So, while he’s planning methodically, his motivation might be completely irrational.”
“Exactly. The contradiction defines us. Mathematical precision in service of magical thinking. Logical steps toward illogical conclusions.”
She considered his words : the human brain's need for order (mathematics) to satisfy its need for meaning and comfort (magical thinking)
“Thank you,” Riley said after a moment. “This helps.”
“Happy hunting, Agent Paige.”
The connection ended, leaving Riley alone with her thoughts. She pulled up Google Maps on her tablet and entered the coordinates Timothy had deciphered: 37.2741° N, 80.0657° W.
The location appeared on her screen—Quayle Hill on the outskirts of Westminster, Virginia.
Riley zoomed in, examining the terrain. Unlike the previous coordinates, which had led them to buried victims, she knew there would be no body here.
McLaughlin had escaped. But something about this location was significant to Tony Bartlett.
She needed to find out what that might be.
She stood, gathering her notes. The drive to Westminster would take over an hour, and it was already evening. And every hour they delayed gave him time to advance his plan.
She wanted to see this place tonight. Not to find a body, but to understand. To get inside Tony Bartlett’s mind the way she had with so many killers before.
As she headed for the door, Riley felt that familiar shift within herself—the subtle reorientation of her thoughts as she began to see the world through the eyes of her quarry.
Although she wasn’t much of a chess player, she was good with puzzles.
Solving them was her life’s work, after all.
And despite Timothy’s warning, Riley had no intention of letting Tony Bartlett win this game.