Sidney Sheldon’s Chasing Tomorrow (Tracy Whitney)

PLOVDIV, BULGARIA’S SECOND LARGEST city and the venue for the latest World Chess Championships, is set on the banks of the Maritsa River, about a hundred miles southeast of the capital, Sofia. With over six thousand years of history, the city is a treasure trove of archaeological wonders, with sites from antiquity, including two ancient amphitheaters, set beside Ottoman baths and mosques and the remainders of medieval towers.

Tracy booked a hotel in the old quarter, a pretty maze of narrow, paved streets lined with old churches and homes from what was known as the National Revival period. The Britannia Hotel was really little more than a guesthouse, with a few rooms, a grubby reception area and a salon that served fruit, bread and coffee for breakfast but nothing else. It suited Tracy perfectly. From her bedroom window she could see the heights of Sredna Gora rise to the northwest, above the alluvial plain on which Plov­div had proudly stood since four thousand years before Christ was born. It had been a decade since she’d set foot in Europe. In other circumstances she would have drunk in the culture and beauty of her surroundings like a wanderer stumbling upon a water hole after years in the desert. As it was, the pealing church bells and sights and smells of the Old World barely registered.

Tracy wasn’t here to sightsee. It had taken her a long time, too long, to figure out the first line of Daniel Cooper’s riddle. By the time she arrived at the Britannia Hotel, she was hot, exhausted and nauseous with stress . . . What if this was all a sick joke? What if Jeff wasn’t here after all, but already dead, and Cooper had lured her here so he could kill her too? What if Blake Carter was right and she was making a terrible, deadly mistake? . . . Her “twenty nights” were almost up.

She had to meet Cooper tonight. Tracy knew from bitter experience that Daniel Cooper would not tolerate lateness, or extend a deadline once set, not even for her. The problem was she still wasn’t certain which open-­air theater he was referring to in his “beneath the stars” line. The Antichen Teatar, built by the Emperor Trajan in the second century was the most famous. It was also situated between two of Plovdiv’s six hills, making it an obvious choice. But the Ancient Stadium, built a hundred years later by the Emperor Hadrian had as much claim to be a “stage of history,” as well as the advantage of being closed to the public for restoration work.

With nothing else to go on, Tracy decided that Cooper would choose the abandoned theater for their rendezvous. He’ll want to meet me alone. Dropping her suitcase on the bed, she showered, changed and walked across the street to a tiny café where she forced herself to eat a Pritnsessi sandwich, a traditional Bulgarian snack of feta cheese and egg, and drink a cup of strong coffee. Felling slightly better, physically at least, she checked her watch.

Six P.M.

Three hours to go, assuming she was right about “three times three” meaning nine P.M. From the tourist map she’d picked up at the reception desk, Tracy knew that the stadium was situated in the north of the city, no more than a twenty-­minute cab ride away. She decided to get there early. When going into battle, it always made sense to check out the terrain first. Especially when the battlefield had been handpicked by the enemy. Daniel Cooper had chosen this spot for a reason.

I should find out what it is.

Reaching into her purse for her wallet, Tracy fingered first her cell phone and then the gun she’d brought with her, a tiny, custom-­made Kahr PM9 micro 9mm that could be disassembled into pieces that looked like lipstick tubes and other “permissible items” when passing through airport scanners. Jeff would have laughed and called it a “woman’s gun.” But its bullets could kill, just like any others.

In all her years as a con artist, Tracy had never gone armed to a job. Not since that fateful night at Joe Romano’s house in New Orleans, the night that had seen her wind up in jail and that had changed her life utterly and forever. Tracy didn’t like guns. She wasn’t in the business of hurting ­people. But this was different.

Daniel Cooper was a psychotic killer.

And he had Jeff.

Tracy paid her bill and walked out into the street.

THE MAIN BUS STATION in Sofia is right next to the railway station. Jean Rizzo arrived just as the bus to Plovdiv was leaving and was told he would have to wait another half an hour for the next one.

“Goddamn it!” Jean shouted aloud.

It was already five o’clock. As ridiculous as it sounded, numerous ­people had told Jean that the fastest and most reliable way to get to Plovdiv from Sofia was by bus. Taxi drivers invariably took unnecessary detours to jack up their prices, the trains were frequently canceled, and renting a car was complicated and involved navigation, never Jean’s strong suit. In other circumstances he’d have asked the local police to drive him the ninety miles, but by the time he’d explained about Daniel Cooper and Tracy Whitney and the Bible killings and deciphering riddles, more valuable hours would have been lost.

At last, another bus arrived and Jean climbed onboard, paying the eleven levs fare. It was crowded and almost unbearably humid, and the suspension of the vehicle was atrocious, as was the cell-­phone reception. Not that it mattered much. After three barely audible, then dropped calls to his office, Jean learned that they still knew precisely nothing about where Tracy might be staying. Nor had there been any sightings or leads on either Cooper or Jeff Stevens. Local police had been dispatched to the chess championships—­“where masters meet”—­as well as to a variety of possible open-­air meeting places. Tonight’s tense match between the Russian Alexandr Makarov and his Ukranian rival Leonid Savchuk at the Plovdiv Royal Hotel was a highlight of the competition. There was at least a chance that Cooper might choose to meet Tracy there, or leave some further clue to his whereabouts, thinking himself safe in the anonymity of the crowd.

As for Jeff Stevens, Jean Rizzo privately believed that he was probably already dead. Holding a hostage for long periods is a complicated business, fraught with risk. Transporting one across international borders is even more dangerous. In Jean’s experience, killers like Daniel Cooper tended to stick to what they knew. Thirteen murdered women bore witness to the success of the Bible Killer’s MO. Although if anyone could push Cooper to step outside his comfort zone, it would be Tracy Whitney.

Jeff Stevens was right about Daniel Cooper. He’s in love with Tracy. In his own, sick mind, he always has been.

The bus rattled on.

JEFF STEVENS WAS CALLING for his mother again.

Daniel Cooper had heard many others do the same. It was a very common thing to do at the point of death. That primitive bond to the womb that bore us existed in all cultures. It was the love that endured to the end.

I loved my mother too. But she betrayed me.

Blood. That was what Daniel remembered from his mother’s death. Blood pouring from her wrists and neck, blood filling the bathtub and spilling onto the floor, staining the linoleum livid red.

Jeff had bled profusely too, especially when Daniel nailed his hands to the wood.

Infuriatingly, blood had spattered onto Daniel’s clean white shirt. He wanted to look his best when Tracy finally came to him. Tonight was the last night. He could feel her presence already. Her closeness. Like the scent of jasmine on the air.

Tonight.

JEAN RIZZO STEPPED OFF the bus in Plovdiv outside the Intercontinental Hotel.

His watch said five after seven.

Less than two hours. If Tracy’s here, I have less than two hours to find her. Luckily, the team is already in Europe.

He stood in the pretty cobblestone square still busy with tourists, wondering where to go next. Before he’d made a decision, his phone rang.

“Where are you?”

Milton Buck’s voice was as demanding and charmless as ever. It had been months since Jean Rizzo heard from the FBI. They sure knew how to pick their moments.

“I don’t have time for this now,” Jean said brusquely.

“I know you’re in Bulgaria. Have you already reached Plov­div?”

This gave Jean pause. How the hell does Buck know where I am?

“As a matter of fact, I have. Not that it—­”

“Do not interrogate Cooper without me. Do you understand? My team and I will be in the city by nightfall.”

“By nightfall it’ll be too late,” Jean said bluntly.

“Now you listen to me, Rizzo.” Milton Buck’s voice took on a threatening edge. “We’ve been tracking Cooper for months. We now have concrete physical evidence implicating him in the New York and Chicago jobs. It is imperative that you do not alert him to your presence, or scare him off before we have a chance to interrogate him. Is that clear?”

“Kiss my ass, Buck,” said Jean, and hung up.

He called his own team next. “Any news?”

“No, sir. Nothing yet.”

Jean thought, I’m on my own. I have less than two hours to work out where Tracy and Cooper are meeting. Think, Rizzo. Think!

TRACY ARRIVED AT THE stadium just as dusk was beginning to fall. The air was still warm and humid and she could feel sweat running down her spine underneath her white T-­shirt. She’d dressed casually for tonight’s encounter, in jeans, sneakers and a light jacket. The latter meant she could conceal her gun, but it also meant that she was uncomfortably hot. Hopefully by nine the temperature would have dropped considerably.

The area around the stadium was all but deserted. Tracy saw a number of boarded-­up kiosks, the kind that sell tourist crap at every “attraction” in Europe. Evidently the restoration work was expected to go on for some time, months or even years. A few ­people crossed the square adjacent to the main entrance, but everybody was passing through, hurrying home after work. Nobody paid either Tracy or the stadium any attention. There was no one taking photographs and no one who looked like a tourist, other than Tracy herself.

Good.

“Closed” signs had been erected around the ancient structure, and here and there some lines of yellow tape had been haphazardly stretched between dilapidated wooden poles. But no significant effort had been made to keep out any would-­be intruders.

How different from the States, Tracy thought. A place like this would be padlocked and alarmed to within an inch of its life. She strolled the perimeter, looking for CCTV cameras, but there was nothing. As meeting places went, this one was both spectacular and private. Tracy grew increasingly confident that it was the place where Cooper would be waiting.

“Confident”? Was that the right word?

The truth was, Tracy felt sick with nerves. And not the sort of preheist stage fright she’d grown used to experiencing over the years. That was a blessing, a necessary adrenaline rush that hardened one’s determination and honed one’s reactions. This was different, debilitating.

Jeff’s life could depend on what happened tonight, on how she handled Cooper. And she didn’t know what to expect. Through Jean Rizzo, she’d come to know Daniel Cooper as a sadistic and remorseless killer. But she couldn’t totally shake her own perceptions of him as a weak, rather pathetic figure. She would never forget the day Cooper had come to visit her in the Louisiana State Penitentiary. His receding chin, twitching nose and wide-­set, shifty eyes gave him the look of a vole, or some other small rodent. She remembered his small, effeminate hands and struggled to imagine them strangling a grown woman, let alone overpowering a man like Jeff.

And yet, she now knew, Cooper had done both of those things. Her fear returned.

Tracy had underestimated him that day in prison. She had misread both his intentions and the enormous power he wielded over her life and future. She would not make the same mistake again tonight.

By eight thirty, the square was totally empty. What streetlamps there were were widely spaced and dim, and the stadium floodlights had been disconnected. Treading carefully in the dark, Tracy glanced briefly around her before slipping under the construction tape and walking up to the main entrance.

It was quite beautiful. Masonry pillars on either side of the entrance were decorated with intricate marble reliefs. Two busts of Hermes on the pilasters were topped with vases and palm sprays, and something that looked to Tracy to be a bit like a mace, or in any event a thoroughly unpleasant-­looking weapon with spikes. Everything looked as if it had been carved yesterday. She couldn’t imagine how it had remained so well preserved, with no protection and in the middle of a busy city.

Inside, the ground immediately seemed to fall away beneath her feet and Tracy felt herself to be inside an immeasurably vast structure. The space! You got no sense of it at all from walking around the perimeter. Seats made of solid marble, some decorated with lion’s claws, were arranged in fourteen rows, with steep, stepped aisles between them leading down to a circular track. Walking down through the empty, white rows, Tracy had an eerie sense of having stumbled into a ghostly and supernatural place. Inside the stadium one felt completely cut off from the world outside. It was as if she had crossed over into a different dimension, a place frozen in time and space.

Standing in the center of the arena, Tracy spun around, allowing her eyes to become fully accustomed to the gloom. Cooper wasn’t here. No one was here.

It’s still early, she told herself. She could not entertain the thought that he’d gone to Plovdiv’s other amphitheater. That Jeff might be there too, waiting for her, hoping against hope, praying for rescue . . .

She thought about calling out into the darkness but dismissed the idea. Daniel Cooper wants to meet me. He asked me to come. If he’s here, he’ll find me.

Just then she caught sight of an opening directly in front of her. Hidden as it was in the shadows, she hadn’t noticed it before. But now it gaped at her like the ugly mouth of a monster, lurking in wait. Some sort of tunnel or cave ran beneath the tiered seats. A vault? Or a passage, leading somewhere? Leading out? Leading in?

Feeling her palms start to sweat and her mouth go dry, she reached into her jacket and coiled her fingers around her gun. Then she walked into the tunnel.

It was pitch-­black, and narrower than it looked from a distance. With her arms outstretched, Tracy found she could touch the walls on either side. Slowly, like a blind woman, she began to move forward, her feet alert to any bumps or potholes in the uneven ground.

If it branches off, which way should I go?

The thought of getting lost, trapped here in the darkness, filled her with profound fear. And then she remembered. My phone! How could I have been so stupid? She stopped, pulled out her cell phone and turned it on. The moment the screen came to life, the light was blinding, dazzling. Tracy saw at once that the tunnel was in fact very short, running only a few more feet. After that it forked both left and right into a long, curved corridor. Looking right, she saw abandoned machinery, including a small cement mixer and a pair of pneumatic drills. This must be the part they’re restoring, she thought. Astonishing that they don’t lock those up, or take them home at night. Anyone could wander in here and steal them.

She looked left.

“Hello, my love.”

Daniel Cooper, his pale face lit up by a revolting smile, stood just inches away from her. Panicked, Tracy opened her mouth to scream but Cooper was too quick for her. Clamping one hand over her mouth, he forced her back against the wall. Tracy reached for her gun. With terrifying ease, Cooper twisted it out of her hand, pressing the barrel against her temple.

“Don’t struggle, my darling.” Cooper’s breath was on her neck, in her ear. Pinning her back against the wall, he slid one hand down to her left breast and squeezed hard, pinching her nipple beneath the fabric of her T-­shirt. “You’ve waited for this as long as I have.”

Tracy’s phone clattered to the ground.

All the light went out.

JEAN RIZZO CHECKED IN to a guesthouse in the center of town with a view out over the city walls. He jumped on his phone at the first ring.

“Any word on Tracy?”

“No, sir. Not yet. The local police had reports of some sort of disturbance outside of town. A small farming hamlet. It’s probably not worth mentioning but—­”

“What sort of disturbance?”

“Screams, apparently. They sent two men out there.”

“And?”

“They didn’t find anything. Probably just a wild animal being killed. Someone got spooked.”

Probably. Jean was tempted to go and see for himself. He had no other leads, and would at least feel like he was doing something. But if Tracy was meeting Daniel Cooper in Plovdiv and he was stuck out in the sticks on a wild-­goose chase . . .

“Okay. Let me know if anything else comes up.”

He hung up, but the phone rang again immediately. Antoine Cléry sounded breathless.

“I think we’ve found her!”

“Here? In Plovdiv?”

“Yes, sir. She checked into the Hotel Britannia two nights ago.” Cléry blurted out the address.

“I’m on my way.”

Jean Rizzo started running.

TRACY HIT AND KICKED for all she was worth, lashing out with her nails and teeth, fear and rage both driving her on. But for such a small man, Cooper was astonishingly strong. In just seconds he had pinned her down on the ground. Unable to move her arms or legs, Tracy was utterly powerless, like a butterfly with its wings pinned to a board. The darkness was total, like death. She felt Cooper reach down and undo the button and zipper of her jeans, shoving them roughly to her knees. Within seconds, his clammy hand was inside her underwear, touching her.

“My wife.” He sighed. “My angel.”

Vomit rose up in Tracy’s throat. Cooper’s fingers prodded and invaded while his foul breath assailed her nostrils. He was slow, delighting in what he was doing. Every few seconds he let out a little squeal of excitement.

No! This couldn’t be happening. Not again.

Tracy flashed back.

She was in Joe Romano’s house in New Orleans. She was twenty-­two years old, pregnant with Charles Stanhope’s baby, and she’d come to avenge her mother’s death, to force Romano to admit the truth: that he and his Mafia buddies had killed Doris Whitney, killed her with their lies and greed and arrogance. But it had all gone wrong. Joe Romano overpowered Tracy easily, laughing as he pushed her down, ripping her blouse away and pinching her nipples.

“Fight me, baby! I love it! I’ll bet you’ve never been fucked by a real man.”

Tracy had reached for her gun and shot Romano, leaving him for dead. But her gun was gone now. She was powerless. Daniel Cooper was on top of her, grunting like a pig. Tracy heard him unzip his fly. Terror overcame her. I can’t do it! I can’t fight him off!

She forced herself to focus. There had to be something else, another way to stop him.

What did she know about him?

What were his weak spots? His fears?

He’s the Bible Killer. He hates prostitutes.

His breath was coming faster now.

He hates immoral women. He believes he’s on a mission from God.

Cooper pushed up her T-­shirt. His wet lips were on ­Tracy’s breasts, sucking at her like a baby at its mother’s teat. Tracy sobbed, squirming away from him, aware that her struggling only heightened his excitement. Ripping off her jeans and panties completely, Cooper straddled her, forcing her thighs farther apart. His erection, tiny but rock hard, pressed against Tracy’s stomach.

For God’s sake, Tracy! Think of something! Make him stop.

And then it came to her.

“We have to stop.” She spoke firmly, like a schoolteacher admonishing a child. “Daniel! We have to stop NOW.”

Her tone made Cooper hesitate for a split second.

“We’re not married yet.”

Cooper froze on top of her like a statue.

“What?”

“I said we’re not married. This is against God’s law and you know it. We’re not married and we can’t marry. Not while Jeff Stevens is still alive.”

Reluctantly, Cooper slid off Tracy onto his knees. She was still pinned underneath him and the gun, her gun, was still pressed against her skull.

“What makes you think Jeff Stevens is still alive?” Cooper sounded petulant.

“Well, isn’t he?” Tracy masked her fear as best she could. She kept her voice steady but her legs had begun shaking uncontrollably. Please let him be alive. Please don’t let all this have been for nothing.

“I don’t know.”

This wasn’t the answer Tracy had expected. She knew she had to think quickly.

“You know where he is, though, don’t you, Daniel?”

“Of course I do.” Cooper laughed, a high-­pitched, oddly feminine giggle. Tracy remembered it well.

“The lamb is at Golgotha, my dear. The sacrifice has been made. There’s nothing for you to worry about.”

Golgotha. Place of the skull. Tracy’s mind raced. Wasn’t Golgotha on a hill? Or perhaps Cooper was speaking purely metaphorically.

“I asked the Lord to spare him until you came. I wanted you to see. But you took so long, Tracy. He may be dead by now.”

“Take me to him, then,” Tracy blurted.

“I don’t think so.”

“But you have to!” She could hear the desperation creeping back into her voice. “Let me see before it’s too late. Isn’t that what you wanted? What the Lord wanted?”

“No. Not anymore.”

“He’s my husband, Daniel. The Bible says we can’t—­”

“I SAID NO!”

The hard metal of the gun slammed into Tracy’s cheek. The blow was so sudden, she felt it more as shock than pain.

“I’m your husband! I’m the one God chose to save you. It was your lust for Stevens that blinded you all these years. But that’s all past now.”

He began again, and this time there was no stopping him. Tracy knew what would happen, and the knowing took away the fear. Hands were on her, hurting her, but they weren’t his hands. This time the hands belonged to Lola and Paulita and Ernestine Littlechap. Tracy was on the concrete floor of her cell in the Louisiana State Penitentiary, and the women were beating and violating her while she wept and pleaded. She heard their voices. “Carajo! Give it to the bitch.”

Then came the voice of the prison doctor.

“She’s lost the baby.”

That was Charles’s baby. Tracy had changed forever that day. If Tomorrow Comes, she’d told herself, I’ll get my revenge.

Later there had been another baby, with Jeff. She’d lost that one too. And then came Nicholas. My Nicholas. My darling. My life. Nicholas had saved her. Did she love him so much because she’d lost the others?

Suddenly Tracy felt overwhelmed with rage. The fear was gone, but a wild, primitive fury took its place. Daniel Cooper was not going to rob her of her son! He was not going to rob her darling Nicholas his mother, or enact his sick fantasies on Jeff, the love of Tracy’s life. She was not going to let it happen, not while she still had breath in her body.

With a scream of fury, Tracy flung both arms behind her head. She could feel Cooper’s penis pressing against her, his hips bearing down on her like a lead weight. Scrabbling around in the dust, her fingers brushed against a loose rock. It wasn’t particularly large or heavy but it would have to do. With a strength she didn’t know she possessed, Tracy grabbed the stone and slammed it down with all her force into the back of Daniel Cooper’s skull.

Tracy heard a shriek of pain and felt his weight slide off her. But he wasn’t unconscious.

“You bitch!” he hissed. One hand shot out and grabbed her neck as she scrambled to her feet. He squeezed hard, crushing Tracy’s windpipe. She kicked out wildly in the darkness, barely able to breathe, completely disoriented. He seemed to have dropped the gun, but she knew if he got his other hand around her throat he would strangle her easily, just as he had strangled those other poor women. A stray kick caught him in the groin, provoking another animal screech. For a second he was knocked off balance and his fingers uncoiled from around Tracy’s neck.

She seized her chance, knowing it would be her last. Charging head down into the blackness, like a bull, she slammed into him with all her body weight. Everything slowed down then. She was aware of fingers grasping, a slipping of feet in the dust. Then a crack, like an egg breaking on the side of a mixing bowl.

Tracy waited, frozen in the dark, breathless silence.

There was a muffled thud as Cooper’s body crumpled to the ground.

Then nothing.

THE RECEPTIONIST AT THE Hotel Britannia was skinny and pale. She had twiglike arms, covered in tattoos, and long, lank hair dyed an unforgiving shade of black. Jean Rizzo wondered how long she’d been doing drugs, but only for a moment.

“Do you speak English?”

She nodded. “Leetle.”

“I’m looking for this woman. Tracy Schmidt.” He pushed a crumpled head shot of Tracy across the desk, along with his Interpol ID card. At the sight of the latter, the girl’s eyes narrowed. “What room is she in?”

“You wait. Please.”

The girl disappeared into a small back office and did not return. Instead a vastly fat man in an ill-­fitting jacket waddled out to meet Jean.

“I am the manager. There is a problem?”

“No problem. I need to locate one of your guests, urgently.”

“Ms. Schmidt. Yes, Rita told me.”

“I need her room number and key.”

“Certainly.” The manager smiled nervously. Jean wondered what exactly it was he was trying to hide. “However, Ms. Schmidt is not in the hotel at present. She left this afternoon at around five and has not yet returned.”

Jean Rizzo experienced a sharp pain in his chest. I’m too late.

“Did she say where she was going?”

“I’m afraid not. But she has been interested in the chess championships we’re hosting here in Plovdiv. She attended a game yesterday. It’s the final tonight. Viktor Grinski is playing Vasily Karmonov. It wouldn’t surprise me if she’d gone over to watch.”

Seven nights at three times three. Nine o’clock. Jean looked at his watch. It was already ten after nine. The meeting with Daniel Cooper would be happening now. If Tracy had found him. There was a chance she was still scrambling around in the dark, trying to solve the last piece of the riddle, just as he was doing.

Jean grabbed a piece of paper and scrawled down some numbers. “This is my phone. I’ll be at the championships. If she returns, the moment she returns, I want you to call me at once. Do not let her leave under any circumstances. Do you understand?”

“Of course. May I tell her that the police—­”

“No,” Jean shouted over his shoulder. He was already halfway out the door. “Don’t tell her anything. Just keep her here.”

TRACY DRAGGED DANIEL COOPER’S limp body out of the tunnel back into the amphitheater. It was only a few yards back to the light of the outside world, but it felt like miles. Cooper weighed a ton. He was a slight man, but his limbs seemed to have been filled with lead. By the time she got him outside, she was soaked with sweat.

He was breathing, but barely. Blood poured hot and red from the gash on his head, like magma spilling out of a fissure in the earth’s crust. The whole left side of his skull had folded in, like a child’s soccer ball that had been stamped on.

“Where’s Jeff? Where is he!”

Cooper groaned. A hideous gurgling sound started somewhere in his throat.

“Tell me where he is!” Tracy demanded. She was becoming hysterical. “What did you do to him?”

Cooper was slipping in and out of consciousness. It was clear he didn’t have much time left. That it was now or never.

Tracy forced herself to calm down. She tried a different tack.

“You’re dying, Daniel. You need to confess. Make your last act of contrition before the Lord. Do you want the Lord’s mercy, Daniel?”

Cooper grunted. His lips were moving, but no sound came out.

“Jeff Stevens . . . ,” Tracy prompted, bending low so her ear was right next to his mouth.

“Golgotha.” Cooper’s voice was a whisper. “The lamb. Sacrificed, like the others.”

“What others? Do you mean the women you killed? The prostitutes.”

A smile played around the corners of Daniel Cooper’s lips. “I killed them for you, Tracy.” The gurgling started again. “You were my salvation. My reward . . .”

Tracy couldn’t allow the horror of what Cooper was saying to sink in. Those women were dead. There was a chance Jeff might still be alive. She had to save him, had to try.

“Where is Golgotha, Daniel? Where is Jeff?”

“Place of the skull . . . death on the cross . . .”

“Is it here? In Plovdiv?”

“Plovdiv . . . on the hill.”

This was hopeless. Cooper was rambling. His voice grew fainter. He began calling for his mother, and moaning. He kept talking about blood. Before long Tracy had lost him again.

She ran back into the tunnel. Her cell phone was on the ground close by the entrance, where Cooper had first attacked her. The screen was cracked but the phone still worked. Switching it on, she punched out the familiar number.

Jean Rizzo sounded frantic. “Tracy? Tracy, is that you? Are you all right?”

“I’m fine. I’m sorry I disappeared on you. I’m in Bulgaria.”

“I know. In Plovdiv.”

This brought Tracy up short.

“I’m here too.”

“You are? Thank God! Have you found Jeff?” For the first time, her voice started to crack.

“No. Not yet. Where are you, Tracy?”

“At the amphitheater.”

The amphitheater! “The stage of history.” Of course.

“Are you alone?”

“I am now.”

“But Daniel Cooper was there?”

“Yes. He was. He tried to . . .” Despite herself, Tracy started to cry. “I fought him off. I think he’s dead, Jean.”

“Christ. Okay, stay where you are, Tracy. I’m on my way.”

“NO!” The vehemence in her voice took Jean by surprise. “Forget me! I’m fine. We have to find Jeff. There may not be much time.”

“Okay, okay. Calm down.”

“No, Jean. You don’t understand. Cooper’s done something to him. Hurt him. I tried to get him to tell me where he was, but I . . . I couldn’t. Jeff’s out there somewhere, alone, maybe dying. We have to find him.”

Jean Rizzo took a breath. “What did Cooper say? Exactly?”

“Nothing that meant anything. It was just . . . religious rambling. He was semiconscious.”

“But he said something?”

“He said Golgotha. Golgotha, Golgotha . . . Place of the skull . . .” Tracy closed her eyes, trying desperately to remember. “It was all about the crucifixion. He said Jeff was being sacrificed for my sins, just like the women he killed. He said he killed them all for me. That it was my fault.”

“It wasn’t your fault, Tracy.”

“Death on the cross, death on the hill . . . something about a lamb . . .”

“Wait.” Jean Rizzo interrupted her. “I remembered something. There was an incident today. A farming hamlet, up in the hills outside the city. Someone reported hearing screams. The local police checked it out but said there was nothing but sheep up there.”

Tracy’s mind whirred into life.

Sheep.

Lambs.

The hill.

“What’s the name of the hamlet, Jean?”

“I can’t remember. Oreshak or Oreshenk or something like that. I’ll find it. You just stay there, Tracy, okay? I’m sending someone to get you. An ambulance.”

“Are you out of your mind? I’m not staying here! And I don’t need an ambulance. How far is the place, Jean? Jean?”

But Jean Rizzo had already hung up.