The Big Bad Wolf

the heavily wooded country road around a bend from a dirt lane that led to the house. Ned Mahoney, who had just arrived from Washington, and I met up with the local sheriff, Eddie Lyle.
    “Lights are all out in the house,” Mahoney observed as we approached what was actually a renovated log cabin. The only access to the secluded property was the dirt road. His HRT teams were waiting on his command to go.
    “It’s past one,” I said. “He might be waiting on us, though. I think there’s something desperate about this guy.”
    “Why’s that?” Mahoney wanted to know. “I need to hear.”
    “He let her go. She saw his face, and the house, the car too. He must have known we’d find him here.”
    “My people know what they’re doing,” the sheriff interrupted, sounding offended that he was being ignored. I didn’t much care what he thought—I had seen a local, inexperienced rookie cop blown away in Virginia one time. “
I
know what I’m doing too,” the sheriff added.
    I stopped talking to Mahoney and stared at Lyle. “Hold it right here. We don’t know what’s waiting for us inside the house, but we do know this—he knew we’d find this place and come for him. Now, you tell your men to stand down. FBI HRT goes in first! You’re backup for us. Do you have a problem with that?”
    The sheriff’s face reddened and he thrust out his chin. “I sure as hell do, but it doesn’t mean fuck-all, does it?”
    “No, it doesn’t matter at all. So tell your men to stand down. You stand down too. I don’t care how good you think you are.”
    I started walking forward again with Mahoney, who was grinning and not trying to hide it. “You’re a hot ticket, man,” he said. A couple of his snipers were watching the cabin from less than fifty yards away. I could see that it had a gabled roof with a dormer on the loft level. Everything was dark inside.
    “This is HRT One. Anything going on in there, Kilvert?” Mahoney said into his mike to one of the snipers.
    “Not that I can see, sir. What’s the take on the UNSUB?”
    Mahoney looked at me.
    My eyes moved slowly across the cabin and the front and side yards. Everything looked neat, well maintained, and seemed to be in good repair. Power lines led to the roof.
    “He
wanted
us to come here, Ned. That can’t be good.”
    “Booby trap?” he asked. “That’s how we plan to proceed.”
    I nodded. “That’s how I would go. If we’re wrong it’ll give the locals some yuks.”
    “Fuck the local yokels,” said Mahoney.
    “I agree with that. Now that I’m not a local anymore.”
    “Hotel and Charlie teams, this is HRT One,” Mahoney said into his mike. “This is Control. On the ready. Five, four, three, two, one,
go!
”
    Two HRT teams of seven rose up from “phase line yellow,” which is the final position for cover and concealment. They passed “phase line green” on the way to the house. After that there was no turning back.
    HRT’s motto for this kind of action was “speed, surprise, and violence of action.” They were very good at it, better than anything the Washington PD had to offer. Within a matter of seconds, the Hotel and Charlie teams were inside the cottage where Audrey Meek had been kept captive for over a week. Then Mahoney and I burst through the back door and into the kitchen. I saw stove, refrigerator, cabinets, table.
    No Art Director.
    No resistance of any kind.
    Not yet.
    Mahoney and I moved ahead cautiously. The living room area had a wood-burning stove, a striped contemporary-style couch in beige and brown, several club chairs. A big chest covered by a dark green afghan. Everything was tasteful and organized.
    No Art Director.
    Canvases were everywhere. Most had been finished. Whoever had done the paintings was talented.
    “Secure!” I heard. Then a shout—
“In here!”
    Mahoney and I raced down a long hallway. Two of his men were already inside what looked to be the master bedroom. There were more painted canvases, lots of them, fifty or more.
    A nude body lay sprawled across the wooden floor. The look on the face was grotesque, tortured. The dead man’s hands were tightly wrapped around his own throat, as if he were strangling himself.
    It was the man Audrey Meek had drawn for us. He was dead, and his death had been horrible. Most likely poison of some kind.
    Papers lay scattered on the bed. Alongside them, a fountain pen.
    I bent and began to read one of several notes:

    To whomever—
    As you know by now,