"And were you prepared to do that?" she asked. “Have you been doing it?”
He chuckled, a mirthless, strange sound. "You want me to confess something to you? You think that will help your objectives? All I can tell you is that the stones have hunger. And needs. Maybe one day their needs will be ... sated." He drew out the last word.
"Where were you this morning?" she asked.
"I don't answer to you. You are not my keeper," he insisted.
Wyatt inhaled angrily. "We're not your keeper. We're police, and you owe us answers based on what you've got papering your walls."
Doone snorted. "My walls? You read my writings, the mosaics I made, and you still don't get it, do you? You believe that you can lock me up and stop me from feeding the stones? You can't. Lock me up and others will carry the torch. The stones have been waiting for too long. They won't be denied their rightful place on this earth."
Doone's gaze locked again with hers, and she could see the conviction in his eyes. "There is no other way. It is the way of our ancestors. They knew the power of the stones, and they worshiped them. And now, they are forgotten. The stones are alone and hungry. They need us."
"You fed them, didn't you? You had a plan to feed those stones, to use that life force. Tell me how it started?"
"I won't say that. Only the stones know," he said slyly, his gaze sliding away. “The stones and their supporters. Even in these modern times, there are believers in their ancient powers.”
"Did you look for victims? Was London your starting point?"
Juliette wished she had more specifics on those photos on the walls, clipped from various sources, but none of them with the source attached. She knew that if Harris and Black had found Daisy and the other two in that macabre collage, or Sierra had uncovered any messages, they would have called. They hadn’t yet, but she needed them to because now she and Wyatt were having to tease the information from him.
Doone remained silent, his face expressionless as he stared back at them. But there was a flicker of satisfaction in his eyes, as if he was enjoying their confusion and frustration. Juliette could feel her anger rising. They needed answers, desperately. They could not afford these evasion tactics.
Suddenly, Juliette's phone rang, interrupting the tense atmosphere in the room.She jumped inadvertently, seeing his tiny smile, knowing that despite her efforts, she'd given away her own state of tension.
Hoping it would be Harris, she glanced down. Right now, they needed proof. If the photos on the walls were linked to the victims, that would be a massive bonus.
But it wasn't Harris. For the fourth time that day, Ebury was calling, and Juliette stared down at his incoming number in consternation. Wordlessly, she got up and walked out of the interview room, with Doone’s satisfied chuckle the last thing she heard before closing the door.
"Ebury?" she said. "What's happening?"
"Listen," he said, "I know you've got a strong suspect in custody, but there's been a development."
"Tell me?" Her heart sank.
"Half an hour ago, Louise Allday, who's a model, left her apartment in central London to go to a shoot. She never arrived, and her phone is off. The shoot was ten minutes away from where she lives. She's twenty years old. The model agency called police immediately once they realized what had happened. They’re panicking. There was nowhere she could have gone."
"I'm hearing you." A coldness was filling her. If this was the killer at work again, then the abduction had taken place after they’d arrested Doone. The timeline did not allow for Doone to have taken this woman.
So, either someone else was abducting women in central London, or Doone was not the criminal they needed—both scenarios were disastrous.
"This may be coincidence,” Ebury confirmed, “but we can't treat it this way. It might be that he's still out there, and that he's taken someone. Again."
CHAPTER THIRTY
He'd never done this before. Never believed it would be possible.
But the situation was changing, it was flaring up, and he knew he needed to change along with it.
A few hours ago, this carefully researched woman, tall and elegant, had seemed like the perfect prospect. He knew her energies would blend with the stones, and that they would welcome her. He had the place lined up where she’d be killed and left to rest. Like the others, it reflected the design of the stone circle, a mirror of it, just as the victims were.
Even now, parked up in an alleyway and looking at her trussed up in the back of the van, he felt a sense of power and completion, longing for her life energies to be added to the mix he’d created so far. Each one was special, and each one gave him a boost of power, as their energies flared into the meridians he was feeding.
"I'm not the only one, you know," he told her conversationally. "I'm not the only one by any means. A number of people worship these great stones in the same way I do."
He was in touch with them, of course. He knew them. They had dark web conversations; they shared goals and ideals. They were like a brotherhood, one that existed to breathe life into a monument that had been neglected for too long.
The stones were their lifeblood, and he was their chosen one, their messenger. He would do anything to ensure their survival and glory. Anything.
