The next morning, Lisa Starling was feeling much better after a night's sleep. Her hotel was nowhere near as fancy as the hotel her cousin had frequented. But it was clean and comfortable and it had a restaurant, and that was where Lisa was now. She was discussing the case with Sergeant Frobisher over a large breakfast. Sausage, eggs, bacon, and pancakes were piled up on their plates. A hearty meal indeed.

"So, what did your people find out about that Castillo girl?" Sgt. Frobisher asked.

Lisa sighed. "Not much, but enough. According to Virginia authorities, she was bailed out of jail yesterday morning. A lawyer named Roger Patterson was the guarantor. He's one of those real skuzzy types – anything for money. His secretary says he was hired to get Ana out by a Mrs. Rosenberg, and I think we both know who she is. She wired the money down to him, and he got her out."

"And he brought her up here?"

"Probably, but we can't know for sure," Lisa said, her mouth quirking. "His dealings with his client are confidential. What did you end up doing with her?"

Sgt. Frobisher shrugged. "We had to arrest her," he said diffidently. "Felt real bad about it, but we had to. It's a bail violation for her to even be here. And once we got a translator in she admitted she lied to Immigrations, she said she was American and she's not. She was real upset, crying, didn't understand. She said Susana bailed her out and was putting her up here. Real cooperative, but she doesn't really know squats about where Susana was or what she was doing."

Lisa sipped her coffee for a moment and thought. It seemed quite cruel to her what Susana had done. She'd gotten Ana out of jail, true, but then the younger woman's freedom had only lasted for a few scant hours. Just enough to be driven up to Toronto, have a nice dinner, and take her place in Susana's suite. Her hopes had been raised and then smashed.

"Don't know what they'll do to her," Sergeant Frobisher continued. "Given the facts, I'd be just as inclined to send her back to you guys and just forget charging her here. But that's up to the judge."

"Guess so," Lisa said. "I'm more interested in this Patterson guy. He's our best shot at finding Susana. He had to be here yesterday to bring up Castillo. Maybe he's still around."

"We'll put out an APB on him," Sergeant Frobisher said. "He'll turn up." He gestured at the newspaper lying on the table. "Looks like she made the front page." The headline screamed MARTYR-STYLE MURDERS IN WAREHOUSE DISTRICT.

…

It took several hours for the Toronto newspapers to be flown down to Washington, DC. But flown they were. In Washington, DC one may purchase the periodicals of a hundred different countries without raising any eyebrows at all. The diplomatic staffs of the many embassies that dot the area are usually quite fond of their home country's media. And so when Luke Taylor bought himself a copy of the Toronto Sun later that afternoon, no one thought anything of it.

The sign. The sign he had been seeking. The Sun did not provide photographs of the victims, out of respect for the dead. The Tattler, however, had no such compunction. They also had the advantage of being able to hide behind the First Amendment. They were able to obtain photographs of the crime scene and gleefully printed them, along with prints of the pictures from the book that they had been based on. The Tattler also knew that Susana's fingerprints had been found at the scene, and so the headline HANNIBAL THE CANNIBAL'S DAUGHTER MARTYRS INNOCENT GIRLS screamed off the headlines at supermarkets and newsstands nationwide.

It bothered Luke somewhat that his book had been publicized. That meant the authorities would know about it, and that might lead them to him. But there was nothing to do about it now. Except for his mission, of course.

Jesus had twelve disciples. Luke knew this as well as he knew his own name. These twelve disciples had been reborn, but reborn in an evil light. Dark disciples, determined to hunt him down and stop him from martyring people. Bringing them to Glory. Susana had told him the night he had brought her home. He had to stop the dark disciples, so that she could return. And they would be as one flesh.

One might make the mistake of assuming that Luke Taylor was insane. This would certainly be an understandable error, given the images of pain and fear that haunted his mind and drove him. But in fact, Luke Taylor seemed to the outside world to be lucid and rational. His co-workers found him to be a quiet man who kept mostly to himself, keeping the computer systems running at his place of work. And so Luke set out on his mission.

At first, there was the planning aspect. Luke was up to this easily. He could surf the web as well as anyone, and soon was able to sift out the chaff and obtain the information he wanted. He also needed to decide just how he was going to do with the dark disciples. He could not take on all twelve of them at once, he knew that. Susana had told him that it would be vital for him to strike hard on his first strike. It would be harder once they realized he was out there. It would be a busy night for him tonight.

He spent the afternoon hiding in the server room and running backups. He didn't need to be there, as it was all automated. But his bosses didn't know that. As far as they knew, the world itself would cave in if he wasn't right at the keyboard of the domain controller. That was fine by him. Made it easy to find out what he wanted, and in the air-conditioned, secure comfort of the server room.

He drew the information he needed from the Internet as inexorably as a man will drag a rope towards him. It took a while, but eventually it was all in his grasp. A list of four names and addresses. He didn't think he could possibly do any more that night. He added a fifth, but hesitated over it. Well, he would decide when he got done with the first four. Even just the four ought to slow the heathens down.

He spent the rest of the day poring over the printouts of the pictures he kept in the bottom drawer of his desk. Some men kept hidden bottles of bourbon in their bottom drawers; others kept girlie magazines; still others kept joints or plastic Baggies of cocaine. Luke Taylor eschewed these things as sinful. What he kept in his drawer were printouts of the images that had graven themselves into his mind since that day at fifteen when he had found the book.

He needed quick martyrings, and that displeased him. Yes, a simple knife to the throat or even simply beating with fists was acceptable. It was in the woodcuts, after all. And he was experienced enough as a killer to know that it had to be quick. But Luke preferred the artistry of the martyrings that took more time. It was his art, his craft. It took more time to heat a morion to red-hot temperature, or to strike off hands and feet. But the greatest art took time. After all, everyone remembered the Mona Lisa, but no one remembered last week's comic strips.

Hands and feet struck off. That made him think of his Susana, far away, up north, where she could shelter herself from the heathens. Such a lovely creature. And her sign to him – the three girls – had been so artistic, so talented. So close to the images of perfection. He wondered how she had managed to do three so quickly. He'd never managed more than two in a night, and those had kept him busy late.

So he decided which made sense before he left work for the day. Before he went home, he dropped by a Home Depot for tools. He chose a hatchet and an axe handle. He paid cash, so it would be hard to trace. He had a good sharp knife at home, a Sykes-Fairbairn commando knife, which was close enough to the thin-bladed knife he had seen that it would do. From the woods nearby his house he found a good-sized rock that fit nicely in his fist.

He ate dinner early. He would need his strength for tonight. It would be a very, very busy night. Carefully, Luke dressed in a shirt and tie and Dockers. He wanted to look respectable. After all, he was not dealing with his usual victims. He took a canvas briefcase with Bible literature stuffed in its outside pockets and carefully put the hatchet, the knife, and the rock in it. The axe handle was too large and he determined to use it last.

Luke walked outside to his Jeep and observed the car for a moment. It was an older model, but well maintained. Luke rather liked it. He liked knowing that he could get through just about any terrain that was thrown at him. He consulted the first name on his list and pulled out into the street.

…

Andrew Witt sighed as his microwave dinged. He reached in and took out the mug of boiling water. He placed a teabag in it and sat down to catch some TV. Like most bachelors, his apartment was furnished with castaway furniture, but the TV was a large-screen model. He liked to watch boxing.

He glanced at his lean, spare frame in the mirror for a moment before grabbing his remote and clicking through the channels. No boxing tonight, unfortunately. He stayed on CNN for a while. They were talking about those murders up in Toronto. That was Starling's case. He wondered if she was back from Toronto yet, and if she'd ever managed to catch her cousin. He wondered what she'd meant by that Mary Surratt thing.

Andrew Witt thought Starling was OK, a good profiler. She hadn't put in as much time as he had, but then again not many people had. At least Starling had the background for it, he thought. Way too many FBI agents thought that a few psychology courses qualified them to work in Behavioral Sciences. And he had to give her credit, tracking down Susana Alvarez Lecter even once was an accomplishment. She'd whomped up some database program, tracked down her errant cousin by her extravagant purchases. And she'd been right here, of all places, northern Virginia. Ten miles from here, fifteen miles from her cousin. Scary, when you think about it. Witt was a profiler himself, and he knew well about killers. The thought that one of them – particularly one as dangerous and unpredictable as Hannibal Lecter's daughter – might be shopping at the same supermarkets, dropping off her suits at the same dry cleaners, and buying stamps at the same post office that he frequented. In between hacking people up, of course.

The doorbell rang. Andrew unfolded his long, rangy frame from the couch and walked over to his apartment door. He opened it and peeked outside. A young man in a shirt and tie stood outside, holding a canvas briefcase slung over his shoulder. In his left hand he held a Bible leaflet.

"Hello," the young man said. "I'm here with the Universal Church of the Ministers of God. I'd like to talk to you about faith."

Andrew chuckled. "Look, it's really not a good time right now," he said, and drank from his teacup.

"I can come back later, if you'd prefer," the young man offered.

"Look, I'm really not interested," Andrew said, and tried to close the door. The young man looked back and forth in the hallway. There was no one else present. He took a step forward and put his foot in the door.

"You never know when your time is coming, Mr. Witt," the young man said blandly. Andrew blinked for a moment. How had he gotten his name? Off the mailboxes down in the entryway, probably. "Is your soul clean? Do you believe in God?"

Andrew let out an exasperated sigh. These guys could be so damn pushy. He believed in freedom of religion as much as the next guy, but all rights have their limits, and this dude's right to practice his religion ended at Andrew Witt's front door, in his opinion.

"Look," Andrew said. "I'll be nice here. I'll tell you now that I'm an FBI agent. And you're trespassing. I'll give you one minute to move your foot and be on your way. After that, I'll arrest you for threatening a federal officer."

The young man thought for a moment. "I see you're not a man of faith, Mr. Witt," he said, and moved his shoe out of the path of the door. "I apologize if I was forward. Would you take a leaflet about His Holy Word, at the least? And call me if you have any questions?"

"Sure, whatever," Andrew said, and reached out with his free hand to take the proffered leaflet.

Luke Taylor moved quickly. He pulled the door open and stepped through as quickly as he could, shoving the older man out of his way. The door slid shut behind him. Andrew Witt let out a yelp as she fell to the floor, tea spilling over him. Above him, Luke drew the Sykes-Fairbairn. The blade was blackened, but the edge gleamed silver where he had sharpened it. A thin, wicked blade, six inches long, made by two British commandos expressly for the purpose of killing other human beings. A heretic's weapon if ever there was one.

Andrew Witt gained his feet and turned to run. His service weapon was lying on the kitchen table on the other side of his living room. But Luke was younger and faster. He grabbed Andrew with his left hand and spun him around, the wiry strength of the determined heretic booming through him. His eyes widened and his breathing deepened. This was what he was born to do. His left hand raised like a striking cobra and grabbed the white hair at the back of Witt's head and forced it back. An image flashed through his mind, from his Book, of a heretic holding a martyr in just this fashion. Through the ages this has come down. From an age of dirt and dust and feudalism to here, now, in this apartment with CNN playing on the wide-screen TV and news from across the world blaring out the stereo speakers.

His right hand raised the Sykes-Fairbairn high, and he drove it into Andrew Witt's throat. It made a sick, wet sound as the blade punched through flesh and cartilage. Andrew Witt gagged and raised his hands to his throat. It was a good hit. Luke knew this even as he saw the blackened tip of the knife press through the front of Witt's throat.

When he withdrew the knife, the flow of blood was immediate and heavy. Luke jumped back to avoid getting blood on his clothes. Cleanliness was next to Godliness, after all, and he would be spotted if he had blood on him. Witt collapsed to the floor, still alive, choking on his own blood with a most unpleasant sound. That displeased Luke: a true martyr should accept his fate graciously, dying happily for the service of his faith. But of course this man was no match for those who had died before him.

Andrew Witt stared up at the young man in his living room, his vision growing dim. He didn't want to die. He couldn't die. But die he would. Struck dumb with horror, he watched his attacker pull the phone off the hook and toss it casually across the room, where it landed on the sofa. His face worked a few times, and then he felt no more.

Luke Taylor stood over the dead man and smiled somberly.

"Go in peace," he whispered.

Then he pulled a plastic trash bag from his briefcase and put the bloody knife inside. He checked his shirt and face momentarily in Andrew Witt's mirror. It seemed okay. He opened the apartment door and walked out to his car, whistling 'Amazing Grace'.

One down, three to go. He crossed the name WITT off his list.

The next address was in Maryland, across the state line, so off he went to secure himself his second martyr of the evening. This time the address was a pleasant house in a pleasant suburb with a green lawn and a gleaming black driveway leading to a two-car garage. The driveway had recently gotten a fresh coat of blacktop. Luke stared into the glossy black surface for a moment or two, memories of the pungent aroma of the gravel floating through his brain. When he had been lying stabbed and dying in the street. It, too, was a sign, meant to strengthen him through this trial.

He rang the doorbell again. A young teenage girl came to the door. She looked at him, puzzled.

"I'd like to talk to your family about faith," he said calmly. "Is your father around?"

"We're not…we don't do all that religion stuff," she said. Her face wrinkled in distaste, as if his holy mission was something to be scorned and disliked.

Luke cursed himself for using the knife first time around. Well, he had the hatchet, even though he hated to double up on martyring methods. He'd just have to manage. The girl was preparing to close the door. He had to act now. And she was a perfect martyr, was she not? Young, attractive, just his type.

He stepped forward and shoved the door open as he had before. The girl screamed piercingly. He brought out the hatchet and swung down hard. But his feet were in the wrong place and the door was in the way. The edge of the hatchet struck on a diagonal across her forehead, between her eyes. But it didn't bite, merely glanced off her skull. Dammit.

"Daaaaaaddd!" the girl screamed. That was just fine by him, actually. He swung down again and this time he felt the hatchet cleave her skull. She groped at the hatchet sticking out obscenely from her face and dropped to the floor and began to seize.

A man appeared in the hallway, a small, heavy man with a beard. David Warner, according to his list. Warner looked stricken to see his mortally wounded daughter flopping on the floor with the hatchet sticking out of her face. Luke took one big step over her body, his hand reaching down into his briefcase. Five running steps down the hallway and he had caught up with the man. Warner was slower than Witt had been, and it was easy for Luke to pull the rock out of the briefcase. It fit nicely into his fist. Then he grabbed the front of Warner's shirt and pounding his face and jaws with the rock. He felt Warner's nose break with an audible crunch.

Warner screamed and bleated in his grasp like a caught pig. His hands flailed uselessly against Luke's back and shoulder. How unmanly, Luke thought. A man should stand and fight. God knew he'd had to. Then he thought of how he'd never fought back against his mother, even when she'd stabbed him, and he lost himself in rage. In a red haze he swung the rock again and again, feeling it contact hard against his hand as he struck. Eventually, Warner stopped screaming, but Luke barely noticed.

Then he was bent over, panting, his hand cramped and hurting around the bloody rock. He dropped it back into his briefcase and walked over to the dead girl. He had to use his left hand to pull the hatchet out of her skull, as his right ached too much when he had to use it. Bloodied weapons stashed safe in their plastic bags, he staggered out of the house and back down the street to his car.

Looking at himself in the mirror told him that he had overdone it this time, in case he hadn't realized that. He wondered how much time he'd wasted pounding an already dead man and decided to get his butt across the state line while he still could. There was blood on his face and his shirt. That was a shame. He liked this tie. But it would be a sacrifice. Yes. A sacrifice to his new life with Susana. And speaking of which, he still had two, maybe three more to go tonight. He had to slay the dark disciples so that she could return from exile. She was reliant upon him, he was her knight.

He would not fail.

He had planned ahead for this. The briefcase yielded up an extra shirt and some baby wipes. Cleaning up in the Jeep was not at all convenient, but it worked well enough. He glanced at the clock. Seven-thirty. He still had enough time to get himself running again and finish off the other two.

But his hand was sore and cramped. Luke pulled into a McDonald's and ordered a hamburger and a shake. The fried chunk of meat was good and satisfying, and his teeth tore into it with abandon. He held the shake in his hand. The cold, waxy sides of the cup felt soothing. He sipped slowly at the gluey shake, not wanting to drain it too quickly. By eight o'clock, he felt much better. He crossed Warner's name off the list and stared at it for a moment. Two down, two to go.

On to the next target. This was another apartment in Washington, DC. Luke did his usual gospel bit, got the door opened, forced his way inside. This one was a woman named Thompson, and the hardest part was concealing the axe handle behind his back. It made a suitable cudgel. Beating her to death took a bit longer than the other murders, but it was still not too difficult to do. She screamed a few times and he finally crushed her throat with a blow from the axe handle to shut her up. He made sure to keep control of himself and left as soon as he was satisfied she was dead.

Escaping was a closer call. When Luke got in his Jeep, he saw two DC patrol cars screaming down the road near him. He watched them carefully and slunk down in his seat. They disgorged two uniformed cops who ran into the apartment building and presumably went upstairs. They paid him no heed. Calmly, Luke started the Jeep and drove away. Thompson came off the list. Three down, one to go. Maybe the bonus one.

He drove around the Beltway a few times, just to make sure no one was following him, before heading to the fourth. He was able to wipe off the knife and tie it to the axe handle with the baby wipes in his car. It was late, and he knew that the gospel act would not work a fourth time. But he could count on his clean-cut clothing to at least get the guy to open the door.

Fourth victim. He wasn't sure he was going to go to the next one or not. It would depend. Another small house in Virginia, another single man. Easy enough. This one's name was Suttler. Christopher Suttler. Luke rang the doorbell and banged on the street.

"One minute," came a voice from inside.

"Please," Luke cried. "There's a girl hit outside, she's all bleeding. Can I use your phone to call the cops?"

A click as the door was unlocked. Luke grinned. But he was tired now. Just one more to go before he could call his mission a success. He decided to at least have a look at the fifth martyr he had planned.

Chris Suttler opened the door and looked at Luke. "Where? What happened? Did she get hit by a car?" He was a short, blond man. Luke saw his face and forgot it almost immediately.

"Nah," Luke said, and shoved the door open. His arms were so very tired, and he was quite weary. Four murders in one day. Had anyone done such a thing before? He couldn't recall. But he was so close now.

He took his makeshift spear and drove it firmly into Chris Suttler's abdomen, just at the xiphoid process, where the inner curve of the ribs lies. Quick, easy, and dirty. Chris Suttler died with a look of stupid surprise on his face. Luke Taylor sighed, turned back to the car, and jumped in. Off to the bonus target, the one he was toying with finishing. It was funny, he thought: he could remember a lot about Andrew Witt's death, but as he went on it was harder and harder to recall details. But they all were dead, and that was what mattered. He had broken the circle of the twelve dark disciples.

Four victims had died tonight. Andrew Witt, Dave Warner, Tina Thompson, and Chris Suttler. These four people had more in common than the fact that they had died at Luke Taylor's hands. They had seen each other five times a week at work, where they also saw the fifth victim. Luke was parked in the condo complex that the fifth victim lived in. He crossed off the fourth name and scowled at the fifth.

Her unit was dark. No car in the parking spot. Not there, and he didn't want to wait. He had suspected this. Luke Taylor put his Jeep in gear and drove home for a well-deserved beer and some sleep.

Four martyrs, all of whom worked together. Who worked for the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Specifically, they worked sixty feet below ground, for the division of Behavioral Sciences. All cold and dead now. The way was prepared for Susana's return. Their names all written on Luke Taylor's list, which he had printed off an article on Behavioral Sciences he had found on the web. The names were listed in reverse alphabetical order, and that was how he had martyred them one by one.

That piece of white paper fluttered on Luke Taylor's kitchen table as he slept the sleep of the weary but faithful. Tomorrow, his bride would return home to him, her path made safe. The names on the list read:

WITT

WARNER

THOMPSON

SUTTLER

STARLING