The Killing Game by Iris Johansen

already sustained.”
    He unwrapped the cloth and placed the skull on the pedestal.
    “It's the younger boy,” she said. “What's his name?”
    “John Devon.
If
he is one of Fraser's vic—”
    “Don't give me ifs right now, Joe. I know what you're trying to do, but it's just getting in my way.” She stepped closer to the pedestal and stared at the small, fragile skull. Poor child. Lost child. “John Devon,” she whispered.
    Bring me home.
    God, I'll try, John.
    She straightened her glasses and turned to the worktable. “It's getting dark. Will you turn on the lights? I've got to start measuring.”
             
    SPIRO CAME TO the cottage the next morning shortly before noon. He waved the manila envelope in his hand. “Got the photos. Do you want to see them?”
    “No.” Eve wiped her hands on a towel. “I never look at the photos until I'm finished. They might influence me.”
    He studied the skull. “Neither of those kids looked like that. Those little sticks sticking out all over make him look like a torture victim from the Spanish Inquisition. What are they?”
    “Tissue-depth markers. I measure the skull and cut each marker to the proper depth and then glue it on its specific point on the face. There are more than twenty points of the skull for which there are known tissue depths.”
    “Then what?”
    “I take strips of plasticine and apply them between the markers and build up to all of the tissue-depth points. When that's done, I start the smoothing and filling-in process.”
    “It's incredible that you can come as close as you do with just measurements.”
    “Measurements go only so far. Then technique and instinct have to take over.”
    He smiled. “I'm sure they do.” He turned to her. “Have you gotten any more calls?”
    “No.”
    He glanced around the cottage. “Where's Quinn?”
    “Outside somewhere.”
    “He shouldn't have left you alone.”
    “He hasn't left me alone more than five minutes in the past twenty-four hours. I told him to go take a walk.”
    “He shouldn't have listened to you. It's not—”
    “Where's Charlie?” she interrupted. “Joe's been trying to reach him since last night. He called Talladega and was told he'd left there, but he didn't show up here.”
    “Sorry if you were nervous. I knew Quinn was guarding you and I had a car patrolling the area. I sent Charlie to take a report on Talladega to Quantico. He'll be here tonight.”
    “I was too busy to be nervous. It was Joe who was anxious. But I'd think you'd make the reports yourself.”
    “There are some advantages to being a senior agent. I try to avoid Quantico. I'd rather be in the field.” He smiled. “And Quinn is usually more than adequate. The Bureau was very sorry to lose him.” His gaze shifted back to the skull. “When will you be finished?”
    “Tomorrow, maybe. I don't know.”
    “You look tired.”
    “I'm okay.” She took off her glasses and rubbed her eyes. “My eyes sting a little. That's always the worst of it.”
    “It won't be before tomorrow?”
    She looked at him in surprise. “What difference does it make? I had to persuade you to even let me do the reconstruction.”
    “I want to know. If it is John Devon, it will give me somewhere to start. That's more than I have now.” He paused. “This is a real nasty can of worms,” he muttered. “And I've got a feeling . . .”
    She smiled. “One of those ‘spooky' profiler instincts?”
    “So I get hunches occasionally. Nothing spooky about that.”
    “I guess not.”
    He walked over to the window and gazed out. “I'm worried about this killer. Those bodies were buried years ago and he was very careful even then. What's he been doing since that time? What did he do before Talladega? How long has it gone on?”
    She shook her head.
    “You know, I've often wondered what killers become if they're permitted to go on for a long time. Do they change? How often can you kill before you change from monster to super