C. Lawrence - Silent victim

They reached down and gently helped him to his feet, though the spindly legs appeared unable to support the weight of even his meager body. One on either side of him, they helped him to a chair, setting him down gingerly. He looked elderly, perhaps seventy or so, though it was hard to tell; in his condition, he could have been twenty years younger. Lee figured that he was probably Eric McNamara's father.

"I'm Detective Butts with the NYPD," Butts said gently. "And this is Dr. Lee Campbell. Can you tell us where your son is?"

The old man opened his mouth to speak, but all that came out were pitiful, strangled sounds.

At that moment Lee realized he had no tongue.

"Jesus Christ," Butts muttered, running a hand over his face. "Jesus goddamn Christ."

"Mr. McNamara?" Lee said. "Are you Mr. McNamara?"

He nodded frantically, clutching Lee's hand in his clawlike grip. His skin felt loose, and it was as thin as rice paper.

"Do you know where your son is?"

The old man shook his head violently, trying again to speak, producing more pathetic gurgling noises.

"He lives here with you?" Lee asked.

Mr. McNamara nodded, taking Lee's hand in both of his, babbling incoherently. Lee felt his stomach lurch, and turned to Butts for help.

"Do you mind if we have a look around?" Butts asked.

The old man shook his head, and made a disturbing attempt at a smile, displaying pink gums with a smattering of teeth.

"Are you hungry?" Lee said.

McNamara nodded, tightening his grip on Lee's hand.

"You go ahead and start looking around," Lee said to Butts. "I'm going to get him something to eat."

"Let Diesel do it," Butts said. "You and me need to case this place as soon as possible."

Lee called Diesel in from the yard and gave him the task of escorting Mr. McNamara to the kitchen for some food. Diesel said very little, but from the look on his usually impassive face, Lee could tell he was shocked and disturbed by the sight of the old man. He led McNamara gently off to the kitchen, talking to him soothingly, as Lee and Butts headed upstairs.

"It's gotta be him," Butts muttered as he lumbered up the steps after Lee. "Otherwise it's just too goddamn weird."

Lee agreed, but didn't say anything as they reached the first floor landing. He turned right, and Butts followed him to the first room on the left. There was a lock on the outside, but it had been broken off, the nails ripped out of the wood, which was old and riddled with termites. It was clear someone had been locked inside that room, but had broken out. Lee and Butts exchanged a look.

"Jesus," Butts said. "He kept his dad locked up."

Inside the room was a single bed, a bureau, and a bookcase. It was not uncomfortably furnished-there was a red eiderdown quilt on the bed, and a hand-crocheted wall hanging of a rocking chair, over which were the words Home Sweet Home.

They continued down the hall to the next room. Pushing open the door, Lee entered a small room with candles on every surface-the bureau, the bookshelves, the small table under the window.

But it was the glass jar on the bookcase that drew his eyes. Hesitating, he approached it. As he got closer, he realized-without question-they had found their UNSUB.

The jar was full of eyeballs floating in a liquid he assumed was formaldehyde.

He looked at Butts. For once, the detective was speechless. He stared at the jar, then looked back at Lee, his face slack.

They had their killer's identity. Now all they had to do is find him.

Caleb found what he wanted in the back of the little grocery store, and went up to the counter to pay for his two large bottles of Poland Spring water. You could never have too much water with you in the woods-he knew that from long experience. The woman behind the desk had a comforting look. Her face fell into itself, the skin deflated, her plump cheeks puckered in soft, round folds like a baked apple left in the oven too long. The sight of her full, matronly bosom seemed an invitation to lay his weary head on it. Looking at her, he yearned to nestle within those warm folds of femininity forever.

"That will be five ninety-five," she said, smiling at him.

He handed her a twenty, inhaling her scent as she took his money and counted out the change. Even the smell of her was comforting. It made him think of things baking: the aroma of vanilla, cinnamon, and cloves rose gently from within the billowy sleeves of her paisley blouse. It brought to mind warm, toasty kitchens at Christmastime, with racks of grinning gingerbread men hardening gently as steam rose and condensed into droplets on windowpanes.

He wondered if his mother had smelled like that, but it was so long ago he couldn't remember. He wanted to say something to the woman, but when she gave him the change, her fingers brushed his palm, and he felt the heat rise to his forehead. He averted his eyes, mumbled his thanks, and fled the store.

She wouldn't have smiled so sweetly at him if she had known what secrets he hid in his sinful breast. He hurried out to his car, where Charlotte lay waiting for him. He would take her to his secret place, to the sacred waters, where they would meet their fate together. And then, at last, his transformation would be complete: He would become the Green Man.

A search of the house confirmed that Eric McNamara was gone. The only occupant of the house was the old man, and it looked as though he had been alone for some time. It was amazing that he had summoned enough strength to break out of his room-he was fortunate that the house was old and some of the wood was rotting. Diesel went out to search the barn, while Butts called for Social Services to come get Mr. McNamara.

Diesel's search of the grounds turned up nothing, so they had to assume Eric had gone somewhere with Charlotte. Whether she was dead or alive was something Lee didn't want to speculate on; they could only hope she was still alive. As for Krieger, he was beginning to lose hope that she would ever be found alive.

The first thing they did was call both the New York and Jersey state police to put out an APB. Their geographic profiling of the victims turned out to be right. Sure enough, Eric owned his own car, but was part of a conglomerate of limos operating out of Fleet Car Service, located in Riverdale-just a few blocks away from Spuyten Duyvil. It was easy enough to get the car's plate number; they just had to hope it was in time.

"Who knows which way he went?" Butts said. "Let's call Pennsylvania, too."

That made sense. They were so close to the border, and he might have decided to flee west with Charlotte. There was no telling where he had gone-or whether he had taken Krieger with him as well. They gathered in the kitchen to decide their next step.

"Do you think the old guy knows anything?" Diesel asked. He had made a peanut butter sandwich for Mr. McNamara, who sat at the white-painted kitchen table gobbling it down, smacking his lips, taking large gulps of cold milk in between bites. Eating for him was a messy business, given his physical limitations; Lee tried not to watch. The old man kept looking up at the three of them, as if afraid they might leave him.

Butts leaned down and spoke loudly and slowly to the old man, as though he were an imbecile.

"Do – You – Know – Where – Your – Son – Went?"

The old man narrowed his eyes and chewed his sandwich, spewing bits of bread in every direction.

Butts straightened up and stretched his back. "You think he knows anything about Krieger?" he asked Lee.

"Ask him."

Butts leaned down, his face closer to the old man's ear. "Did – You – See – A – Tall – Redhead? With – A – German – Accent?" he shouted.