Art in Blood (Hunting Grounds Book 6)

Nichole Severn
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Copyright © 2023 by Nichole Severn

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For all the readers who believed in this series.
 A RT I N B L O O D

A washed-out painter battling to forget her past.

A profiler who needs all the help he can get.
To get to know the artist, they'll have to face a killer's deadly work...or become the main
attraction.

HIDING INSIDE THE WALLS OF A MENTAL INSTITUTION WAS SUPPOSED TO DISTANCE HER FROM THE REAL
world, but it seems Becks Gentry can’t leave her old life behind. A malicious killer drove her to give
up everything she loved. Now he’s back and using her paintings as inspiration for his own showcase.
Only this time, Becks isn’t going to run, and she’s not alone.

BAU AGENT RAIDER KING HAS STUDIED BECKS FOR TWO YEARS AFTER LEARNING OF KILLER’ S
attachment to her and her work. His research can prevent countless deaths once published, but as they
uncover more of the artist’s masterpieces and the victims exsanguinated to create them, Raider
discovers his own attachment to Becks. Putting everything they’ve worked for at risk.

THEIR WORST NIGHTMARE IS BACK TO FINISH WHAT HE STARTED . AND NOTHING WILL EVER BE THE
same.
 CONTENTS

Art in Blood
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Epilogue
Dirt is Thicker - Sneak Peek

About the Author

Also by Nichole Severn
 CHAPTER ONE

APATHY INCURRED A PRICE MORE THAN MOST WERE WILLING TO PAY.

She couldn’t be apathetic about this.
Becks Gentry stared at the familiar lines and curves where she’d let paint run down the canvas.
She’d taken a trowel to that corner and dragged it horizontally to give the feeling of stability amid the
chaos of all the other blues, whites, and blacks she’d mixed in. The photograph didn’t do her work
justice. A mere representation.
Only this wasn’t her painting. It wasn’t painted in hues of blue. And stability wasn’t anywhere
within reach.
This was a forgery of the worst kind.
Someone had taken her art and replicated it.
In human blood.
“It’s one of yours, isn’t it?” Raider King kept his distance in her small white room. He was good
at that. Giving her space when she needed, handling her like glass. As though she’d break at any
moment. Because how else was he supposed to treat a mental patient he’d been studying for two
years? “Breathe.”
Becks had to remind herself he wasn’t instructing her to breathe through the fact the man—the
killer—who’d destroyed her life was back. Breathe was what she’d titled this particular piece. Her
fingers spasmed to have one of her brushes in hand, to give her something real to hold onto while the
world threatened to crack all over again. “You said…you said you’d found them all. My work. The
FBI—”
“I did. I tracked down as many as I could from private owners and took more than a dozen off the
market. But you know as well as I do whoever is recreating your work isn’t limited by physical
copies, Becks.” The way he said her name—filled with respect and fear and familiarity—it worked
to soothe raw nerves determined to unravel her where she stood. Raider risked a step forward,
slightly closing the distance between them, and rolled the crime scene photo back into his hand, but
hiding it wouldn’t do a damn bit of good.
The image had burned into her mind.
He’d slicked his hair to one side, just as he always did when he visited her. Not a single strand
out of place. His chosen suit of the day deepened the streak of green in his left eye while the scar
cutting through his eyebrow hinted at a much rougher lifestyle than he presented when he came in
here. Into her space. Like he was a different person. Dark hair matched a well-kept beard, putting him
somewhere in his late thirties, she guessed.
 Because that was all she had.
Guesses.
These past two years together, him visiting twice a week, without fail, had been solely to
understand the connection she shared with a killer she’d never met. His personal life—what he did
outside these walls, if he had a wife, a family, a hobby—hadn’t been permitted to come between
them. No matter how much she’d wanted to break that barrier—to give herself something to hold onto
and rely upon—he’d kept his distance.
Like the good FBI agent he was supposed to be.
But Raider King was a masterpiece in his own right. The suit jackets and ties and button-down
shirts hid the tattoos well, but she’d always been able to spot a piece of art. More, appreciate it.
“They know you. They’ve studied you and your paintings. Not to mention you were a big deal
before all this started.” He lowered his voice, being careful with her all over again. Reaching into his
pocket, he extracted a bright container of Tic Tacs. Always orange. He popped the lid and stretched
out one hand.
It was a distraction.
She knew that, but she’d come to look forward to their talks. To seeing him and taking advantage
of this one small gesture in a place color didn’t exist. From the walls to the clothing the hospital staff
wore, to the bed sheets and floors. It’d been everything she was looking for when she’d admitted
herself two years ago. Safe. Emotionless.
“Your face, these canvases—they’re all over the internet and published in countless magazines,
art books, and in the news,” he said. “Millions of people have been influenced by your work.”
A lot of good the publicity had done her.
She took his offering. Two orange Tic Tacs landed in her palm, and Becks was suddenly aware
this conversation wasn’t on the schedule. Their next meeting was supposed to be tomorrow. She
hadn’t even changed out of the painting shirt that barely brushed her mid-thigh, and she’d forgone
pants to save herself from the laundry room’s rants about paint stains.
He’d broken protocol to see her.
The idea shouldn’t have thrilled her. Raider was the only visitor she’d had in two years, but the
circumstances of this visit weren’t something to celebrate. “And one of them is killing people again to
show his appreciation. Are you telling me I should be honored?”
“I’m telling you that you can stop him.” His confidence was almost infectious. Almost. “He’s an
artist. Like you. He obviously idolizes you and your work. You’re the only one who can get inside his
head, who can figure out what he’s going to do next.”
“I thought that was your job.” Becks popped the small candies, but they failed to release the
pressure inside her chest directing her back to the canvas she’d started this morning. It wasn’t
supposed to be like this. Her work—her art—hadn’t ever been meant to see the outside world. She’d
done it for herself. Breathe being one of the first, an ocean of possibility in a carefully mapped out
life she’d never wanted. The end of the brush fit perfectly into the crevice between her index finger
and thumb as though she’d been born with it, and the world—that crime scene photo, the idea
someone had been sacrificed to create it—slid into the box she’d created for things she didn’t want to
deal with.
She’d gotten good at that. Hiding. Pretending. So much so, it was hard to tell which pieces of
herself were still real. She swept up a combination of forest green and white and mixed them together
on the palette.
Movement registered from behind, louder than it should’ve been. “I know you’re scared. I know
what I’m asking—”
“No, you don’t.” The words left her mouth harsher than she intended, her grip strangling the brush.
A thick drop of paint splattered across the top of her foot. Cold and alarming. She closed her eyes.
Becks tried to conjure the image of Breathe with its varying shades of blue created to mimic the
ocean tide as it pulled away from the beach, but all she saw right then was red.
It took the same shape as her strokes. It tried to unbury the same kind of feeling of freedom and
opportunity, but instead there was only an emptiness that took control. “You have no idea what I’ve
had to live with these past two years. Our little chats? The ones where you’re supposed to learn why
serial killers attach to certain people while killing others is bullshit. I don’t know why he chose me,
and I don’t want to know. I don’t want to know what goes on in his head, and I don’t want to do this
anymore.”
The anger cut to tears, faster than she expected, and then came the shame. That she wasn’t strong
enough, that she wasn’t good enough. That she had no idea who she was anymore because someone
else had decided to put her on a pedestal in the name of his art.
“Count five green things for me.” Raider’s voice had that quality again, the one she assumed he
used with all of the subjects he studied. It was both offensive and compelling at the same time, and
damn it, it was working to unwind the knot tightening inside of her.
“No.” She didn’t want to do this right now. She didn’t want to see his logic or hear about how one
more person had paid the ultimate price because she was too broken to do anything about it. Didn’t he
understand that? Didn’t he know how much it hurt to see her life’s work perverted like that? Knowing
someone had been murdered to create it would tear her apart all over again.
“Count five green things, Becks.” He’d gotten closer without her noticing. “You know it’ll help.
Should be easy considering the piece you’re working on is made up of at least three different shades.”
“My life’s work was destroyed with the deaths of six women, Agent King, and now you are
saying the man who murdered them is back. I don’t think anything will help.” Becks lowered the brush
to her side, grazing her shirt in the process.
This was how it was between them. Raider always in perfect control, her always finding herself
on the edge of snapping. As much as she hated the idea of playing into that role now, she couldn’t
discount the progress they’d made these past two years. In the beginning, she hadn’t even been able to
talk with her psychologist, her family, the hospital staff, or any of her fellow patients, let alone an FBI
agent who wanted to study her.
Now she found ways to work through that paralyzing trauma when it surfaced. She’d started
painting again. She’d made friends here. Well, one friend. She started actually looking forward to
attending the ward’s Christmas party next week. Because of him.
Becks forced herself to take a steadying breath. She owed him that much. “My paints, the holiday
card from my parents on the nightstand, the bruise on my ankle from hitting the door a few days ago,
the tree outside, the streak in your left eye.”
Focusing on what her five senses interpreted in any given moment was supposed to keep her
grounded. Mostly it just got her out of her current barreling train of thought before the crash. But
Raider knew that, didn’t he?
He slid into her peripheral vision, a hint of soap and man and heat filling the short gap between
them. “You don’t have to come with me, Becks. You don’t have to leave here. You and I can keep up
with our twice a week visits, and you can forget I was ever here today.”
He was as close as he’d ever gotten to her now. Within arm’s reach. That alone should’ve put her
on the defense, but this was Raider. He was an FBI agent trying to make the world a better place by
understanding what had led a man to exsanguinate his victims to recreate her work. That case was
still open. Still fresh. As the killer had managed to cover his motives for choosing his victims and left
little evidence behind, law enforcement had all but given up without any new leads without any
bodies.
But now he was back.
“But you can’t keep pretending there isn’t someone out there killing people to get your attention or
that he’s not connected to you in some way,” he said. “You can voluntarily lock yourself in this room
and paint for the rest of your life if you want, but the truth is, Becks, you’ll never be free.”
Free. She didn’t know what to say to that, what to think. The fumes from her paints seemed so
much stronger now, despite years of getting used to the smell. Or maybe the fact he’d entered her
personal space had sent her senses into overdrive.
He was right. Of course, he was right. Removing herself and her work from the world hadn’t put a
stop to anything. It certainly hadn’t given the victims’ families peace or brought a killer to justice. It
hadn’t stopped the nightmares that dragged her through hell every night. The freedom he talked about,
the kind she’d imagined if she could just be someone else for a little while, hadn’t come. Not for a
moment.
Instead, there’d been guilt. Anger. Uncertainty. She’d hidden it well, especially from Raider and
the staff here. Only her recent canvases held the truth, but no one would see her work. Not ever again.
A quick succession of knocks registered from the door a split second before the keypad to her
room beeped. Dr. Geneva Fleck swung inside, that legendary unreadable expression in place.
Severity. That was the word that came to mind. From the tightness of her long dark hair pulled back,
never left down, to the sharpness of her cheekbones, the ward’s sole psychiatrist had expected nothing
but order since the moment Becks had arrived. “Agent King, I don’t believe you had an appointment
with Ms. Gentry today.”
“Special circumstances, I’m afraid.” Raider released Becks from the gravitational pull that’d
somehow taken hold, and she managed to dislodge the air that’d caught in her throat. “I apologize for
not calling ahead. It couldn’t wait.”
Dr. Fleck’s brown eyes assessed Becks from head-to-toe, the way she always did during their
sessions, then seemed to pivot to the rolled-up photo in Raider’s hand in record time. Becks’s
therapist was good at that. Seeing things Becks hadn’t wanted to escape the carefully curated museum
in her mind. It was unnerving and freeing at the same time. Something she still hadn’t gotten used to.
“I see. And judging by the state of my patient, I’m guessing there’s been a development in the case that
brought her here. Something you believe Ms. Gentry can help you with, of which I should’ve been
made fully aware first. I believe that’s the protocol we agreed to when I signed off on your study.”
Raider’s control was shaken. He’d tightened his grip around the crime scene photo, the set of his
mouth harder than when his focus had been on her. Why Becks had suddenly absorbed the slightest
change in his demeanor was beyond her. Almost as though she was relying on his stability. “Believe
me, if I’d had time to go through official channels, I would have, Doc, but this—”
“Has put my patient’s mental state at serious risk, Agent King. You must see that.” Dr. Fleck’s
voice cut as sharp as the palette knife Becks had once owned. “Not only have you ignored the strict
protocols I’ve established with the FBI, which are in place to protect my patients, but you’ve put Ms.
Gentry in an impossible position against her will. Threatening years of progress by dragging her back
into the very investigation that had her admitted in the first place.” Dr. Fleck cleared the door. “And
now I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to leave. I’ll be discussing this incident breach with your
agency supervisor and revoking your security clearance as of today.”
 Hank, one of the security guards who manned the front desk, stepped into the room. She’d always
liked Hank. Quick with a smile and a joke of the day that Becks carried with her through her daily
routine, but now, that humor was gone. He’d come to do what he did best, what he’d been hired to do:
removing the problem. Right now, that problem was Raider.
You’ll never be free.
“No.” Becks stepped between Hank and Raider, which was laughable. She was half the weight of
one and a couple feet shorter than the other. Either man could poke her in the arm and she’d fall over,
but this… This was important. She’d been living as a ghost, believing nothing could get to her in here,
that her admission to the hospital had put a stop to the murders. It hadn’t. The killer was still out
there. Still looking for her. She was the one who’d started this. And she was the only one who could
finish it.
Becks leveled her chin, never more certain of anything in her life. “I’m leaving.”
 C H A P T E R T WO

HE WAS MAKING A MISTAKE.

Raider King flashed his credentials for the officer on scene duty and signed the clipboard. “She’s
with me.”
Lifting the crime scene tape high enough for her to walk underneath, he held his breath as Becks’s
shoulder brushed across his chest. It was small instances like this that’d tortured him for the past two
years, but he couldn’t let it influence him now. Not ever.
“This…” Color drained from her face as she took in the boarded street side windows,
accentuating high cheekbones he’d only found in masterpieces. “This is my gallery. It’s been shut
down for years.”
The massive stretch of windows, gold headers, and concrete reflected everything he’d known
about Becks Gentry, the artist. Sleek, modern, and timeless. The building itself had been established
in 1968, but Becks had taken its wasted potential and turned it into the premier gallery on the west
coast and a prominent landmark in Seattle. It resembled magic, the way she took something as simple
as an empty building or a blank canvas and created an entire story with it. Becks had attracted
worldwide attention with her exhibitions, and now her greatest contributions to this city had become
corrupted.
He hauled one of the glass double doors open and waited for her to make the choice. That was
what this was. Her choice. Because while someone had gone to extreme lengths to recreate her work,
she wasn’t law enforcement. She had no idea what it would take to stop the next victim from
becoming one of her creations. All she knew was the pain of obsession. “Somebody went out of their
way to bring it back to life.”
Becks leveled her gaze with his, shoulders tight. That was all the response he received before she
slid past him and over the threshold.
Must-heavy air collected at the back of his throat as they followed the path the crime scene unit
had indicated through the space. The photographer took shots of evidence marked with numbered
yellow cones while the latent print tech dusted for anything they could use to identify this new artist.
In the gallery’s glory days, dim lighting would’ve outlined each wall and highlighted the works hung
at equal distance from one another.
But it was the block of Ebano Black limestone in the center of the room that drew his attention.
Raider had seen the photos.
It was nothing compared to the brutality of real life.
Becks’s soft gasp filled his ears as she rounded to get the full view. The canvas itself—four feet
by four feet—could’ve come from any art supplier or online retailer. Impossible to trace. Though they
would do their best. But the medium built up, carved through, and finessed was unique to its creator.
“I haven’t been in here since…” She didn’t have to explain. He knew. He knew how much this
place had meant to her, what she’d had to do in order to make those dreams she’d had as a kid a
reality. “It’s so much brighter in person. I didn’t realize blood could maintain that color. I always
wondered why it didn’t dry into a brownish-red.”
“The blood used on the canvases two years ago was mixed with EDTA. It’s an anti-coagulant
hospitals and labs use to keep blood samples from clotting for testing. We’ll have to send a sample
off this canvas to the crime lab to confirm, but it looks as though the painter did the same here.”
Unfortunately, drug companies had started selling EDTA over the counter to detoxify the body during
cancer treatments and for general use, so it would take time to follow the chemical back to the source.
He wasn’t sure why he was telling her the breakdown of what they knew. None of it was important,
but the intensity with which she studied the piece stripped back the distanced expression she’d hidden
behind the past two years and prodded his comfort. She was in her element here. A part of his world
instead of the other way around. “Your security company stopped servicing the building when you
shut down the gallery. Cameras haven’t worked in years, but the back door building alarm sounded
around 2:30am this morning.”
“These strokes here were painted with too much pressure.” Becks trailed her finger along one
edge of the canvas without touching the evidence itself. “This is a good forgery. It looks exactly how
it’s supposed to when you take a step back, but it’s lacking a feeling of lightness I intended with
Breathe. Not just in color but purpose. I wanted the viewer to look at my piece and literally take a
deep breath in appreciation. This…makes me want to hold my breath, and not just because of the
smell.”
Raider released the air he hadn’t realized he’d been holding as she spoke. He could see that now.
Feel the difference without physically putting his hand on the piece. The slightest difference in the
width of the strokes. The areas that should’ve been layered forgotten. As though it’d been rushed. “He
made a mistake?”
“No.” She cocked her head to one side and took a seat directly in front of the canvas. Completely
at ease as though the strokes had each been made by her preferred paint and not human blood.
“Frustrated. You see here?” Becks’s voice lost the rough edge he’d come to equate with their
sessions. “The brush frayed with the downstroke. That tells me there was too much tension in his
hand. It’s not genuine passion. This was painted to make a point.”
Or to claim Becks’s attention.
Raider drove both hands into his slacks, all too aware whatever point the artist had been trying to
make could come back on Becks. He was responsible for her safety. Mentally, physically,
emotionally. She trusted him. That was the only reason she’d agreed to leave the safety of her ward,
and he’d do whatever it took to keep that trust.
But this… This was more than one canvas.
More than one victim.
He could feel it.
And, hell, he didn’t want Becks involved. She’d already been through too much. “Have you had
any visitors in the ward, anyone new or asking questions? Anyone wanting to know more about you
and your work? Received any more letters from fans?”
“Not recently,” she said. “Dr. Fleck requires authorization and security clearance and makes it a
point to give patients the choice of visitation. I haven’t approved anyone but you. No phone calls
either.”
“What about your family?” he asked.
“No.” Becks got to her feet. She hadn’t allowed for any type of probing into her life before a
killer had started recreating her work, and she wouldn’t allow for it now. It was the one area of their
study she’d kept off limits, and Raider’s gut tightened at the mere change in her body language.
Defensive. “The only people I talk to throughout the day are Hank, the security guard, Dr. Fleck, and
my friend Sonia, but none of them could’ve done something like this. I’m the only patient there
voluntarily. There’d be no way for one of them to leave the ward.”
Right. “Then we’re back to a stalker.”
“You already went through everything two years ago.” She slicked her hair back behind both ears,
her fingertips shaking. “I’ve given you everything, and now I’m standing in the middle of a crime
scene a foot away from a painting made with blood. I don’t know what I’m doing here.” A slight hitch
in her voice counted down to the moment Becks would lose that protective layer she’d put between
her and the outside world. “I don’t know why you brought me here.”
Raider slid his hand beneath her elbow. Soft skin caught on the calluses in his palm. He directed
her behind the closest of the faux walls separating the front of the gallery from where her work had
once hung and cut off her sightline to the scene. He’d never touched her before, not once in their
sessions over the years, but the sensory input would distract her long enough to bring her heart rate
down.
Becks seemed to curl in on herself. “Dr. Fleck was right. I shouldn’t have left. I can’t do this,
Raider. I can’t help you.”
“You’re stronger than you think you are, Becks.” Raider released his hold on her. It’d been
unprofessional. While she wasn’t his patient and he wasn’t her psychologist, the same rules applied
in their study. Hands off. “It’s okay to be unsure or scared. You’ve hidden inside those hospital walls
for so long, your brain’s not sure how to process all the stimulus. It’ll take time to remember who you
used to be before all of this, but you’ve got to at least trust yourself enough to try.”
“But I don’t,” she said. “I don’t trust myself. I don’t trust anything I’ve said during our interviews
or trust that I recalled things correctly. I could know exactly who’s doing this and not remember or not
recognize the warning signs. Everything is so…upside down, and I don’t want to do this.”
She stilled, as though the words had taken her by surprise. “I thought I could help you, but I don’t
want to do this, Raider. You think I’m this person who can look past a painting made of blood and be
logical about it, but I can’t. I’m sorry.”
“I don’t need you to be logical, Becks.” His will to keep his distance threatened to break the
moment her mouth parted. “And you don’t ever have to apologize for putting yourself and your needs
first. Ever. Not with me, and if you want to leave, we can leave. We’ll walk right out those doors, and
I’ll take you back to your room in the hospital. You get the choice, Becks. And no matter what you
decide, I’ll still be here.”
She shifted her weight between both feet. Her gaze scanned the room, taking in the teams of
people processing the scene. “But this case—”
“Will move ahead with or without you,” he said.
“Then why did you convince me to come here? What was this all for?” Becks stepped into him,
and a heat that had nothing to do with an abandoned gallery that hadn’t seen air conditioning in two
years ignited in his gut. This wasn’t the guilt-laden shut-in who hadn’t been able to meet his gaze the
first two months of their study. This was a glimpse of the woman she’d been. Of the woman she
wanted to forget. “Did you just want to see how I would react? Was this some sick joke to you?”
 Raider wouldn’t flinch under her insult. “You know me well enough by now to know I’d never do
that.”
“That’s the thing. I don’t know you.” She crossed her arms over her midsection, retreating back
into herself. “I know Agent King. I know the profiler studying me for the benefit of the greater good,
but not the man he is outside of an academic study of a painter who lost her mind because someone
started killing in her name.”
“You didn’t lose your mind. You’re surviving trauma.” Her self-deprecating comments grated
against his nerves. Always had, and he had little patience for them now. “You might not have been a
direct victim, but real life is like art. It’s not about the pretty things we can see. It’s about who we are,
what we’ve been through, and how it’s affected us. Internalizing all that pain of the victims used to
recreate your work was natural. That doesn’t make you crazy. That makes you human. More than
most.”
“Have you been saving that art metaphor just for me?” she asked.
Her ability to deflect hard emotions with sarcasm and jokes outpaced other survivors he’d studied
over the course of his academic career. It was a trauma response, self-sabotage even. A way to shut
down the part of her that needed to be exposed to heal. That was one of the things he liked about
Becks: once she committed herself, there was no turning back. But it would only hurt her in the end.
“My dog hears it every morning.”
“You never told me you have a dog.” Hesitation tendrilled into her shoulders and the tendons
running down her neck. She directed her attention back toward the canvas despite not being able to
see it from their position. “I think the artist only wanted to make it seem as though he rushed the work,
but there are elements to the painting where he’d have to take his time. Especially when it comes to
layering.”
“How much time?” he asked.
“I’m not an expert in painting with blood, but oil-based paints are dry to the touch in six to eight
hours.” Becks released her hold on herself, completely at ease with the subject. “If you’re layering, as
he did, you’d need at least twenty-four hours for each layer to get the right effect.”
Raider didn’t know what was worse. The idea of the killer using blood in the first place, or being
so comfortable manipulating it to achieve a specific effect. Either way, his gut was telling him this
was just the beginning. “And how many layers do you think he built up?”
“It’s different for each section, but at the highest point of the work, my estimate is around four.”
She led him back toward the target scene and pointed out one section of the canvas in particular. “See
this area? It looks like a glob of paint the artist forgot to clean up, but it’s actually been carefully
crafted. Breathe took me two weeks to paint because of this one area. I had to wait a day and a half
for each layer to dry before adding the next over the top of it.”
Raider crouched to get a better angle, memorizing the ridges of the effect. Like the paint itself was
trying to reach out to the viewer.
“You said the other paintings revealed the artist had mixed in an anti-coagulant to prevent the
blood from clotting too quickly, but my guess, to get the pigment he wanted, he’d be working from a
fresh supply rather than a stock,” she said.
He straightened. That was information they hadn’t considered. Without a single victim recovered
since the artist’s debut painting had arrived at this very gallery two years ago, they’d never been able
to expand on an MO. “He’s draining his victims over the course of four days.”
“That’s what I would do,” she said. “That kind of patience is rare, even in the art industry, but I
know an artist who specializes in these kinds of layering effects. Although he hasn’t contacted me in a
few months.”
Warning slithered through him. Raider straightened. “You said you haven’t received any phone
calls, visits, or letters since you committed yourself to the ward two years ago.”
“I haven’t. Dr. Fleck restricted gifts and communication from outsiders a long time ago.” Becks
stared down at the canvas. “But before that, he sent me paintings.”
 CHAPTER THREE

THE SINGLE- STORY STRETCH OF HOUSE IN WEST S EATTLE HAD BEEN PRISTINELY KEPT OVER THE YEARS .
A manicured lawn divided in half on each side of a cement path leading to the front door. Pink
flowers thrived in large pots all along the wide porch decorated with two bright turquoise lounge
chairs while greenery contrasted the off-white stucco wrapping the house. Even the raised garden
beds lining the sidewalk reflected a woman’s touch. Someone who stayed on top of weeds and went
out of her way to keep the curb appeal high. Something Becks hadn’t expected considering her
admirer had clearly been male.
“Stay behind me.” Raider pounded his fist against the traditional black door.
His direction made sense. He was FBI. He’d trained for this, and she… She was nobody. She
wasn’t carrying a weapon, and was honestly more than a little apprehensive and overwhelmed by the
possibilities waiting on the other side of the door. They were on the hunt for a killer. Someone who’d
stalked, murdered, and drained his victims for their blood.
“Anything happens, you use me as a shield and get to the car as fast as possible,” he said.
“Understand?”
She didn’t know what to say to that, what to think. In reality, she didn’t have time to do either, as
the front door swung open and exposed the man on the other side.
“Can I help you?” A clean-cut beard marked with more salt than pepper intensified the hardness
of the man’s oval face. His top row of teeth, especially the front four, had been artificially whitened
while the rest took on the age and effects of coffee consumption. The smell of grounds wafted out
from behind him, cleansing her senses. His navy blazer, white T-shirt, and jeans outlined a man who
obviously took care and pride in his appearance, but a splotch of white paint between this thumb and
index finger and the dried cracks along the back of one hand revealed his true passion. He was a
painter, and she’d met him before.
“Lars Boone.” Raider presented his credentials. “I’m Agent King, FBI. This is my colleague,
Becks Gentry. We’d like to come inside to speak with you about your work.”
Boone’s attention shot to her as if Raider hadn’t said a word, and a pressure unlike anything she’d
ever felt before exploded from inside her chest. Agitation rippled over his expression. “Becks. No,
no, no, no. You’re not supposed to be here. You need to leave. You can’t be here. I promised
Maddie.”
The way he said her name, deep as though he knew her on an intimate level, stripped Becks’s
nerves raw. “Promised her what?”
“Mr. Boone, we know about your wife. You reported Maddie missing five days ago to the
police.” Raider pocketed his credentials. “May we have a few minutes of your time?”
Boone closed his eyes. He shook his head like he was trying to rewind time, but the world didn’t
work like that. No matter how many times Becks had tried. “Did you find her?”
“No, but we’re not here about Maddie, Mr. Boone. Seattle PD is still investigating, and I’m sure
when they find her, you will be the first to know.” Raider’s voice took on the warmth she’d
experienced in their interviews. Compassion mixed with a hint of interrogation. “We’re here about
your work. You sent Ms. Gentry a collection of paintings up until about six months ago.”
A physical pain bled through Boone’s expression as he raised his gaze to hers. “I wasn’t sure if
you got them.”
“I did.” Nerves got the better of her. Raider had asked her about any type of communication
between her and the outside world, and she hadn’t lied. No one had been allowed to contact her, but
she’d seen the canvases in Dr. Fleck’s office. No notes or visits from the artist. No return address or
attempt to talk to her as far as she knew. If it weren’t for her background, she might not have ever
figured out where they’d come from. “Your use of layering is quite impressive. I recognized it in the
first painting you sent me. I remembered you’d come to the gallery once. You were trying to get your
art on exhibit. You’re very talented.”
“Thank you. That means a lot coming from you.” Boone seemed to get a hold of himself then. “If
you’re here about the pieces I sent, I’m sorry. I’d heard you’d been admitted to that hospital, and I
didn’t know if I was allowed to reach out. I thought sending you some works for your room would be
okay.”
“My psychologist thought it best to keep them in her office, but I was allowed to study them on
occasion.” Becks had to remind herself why they were here. That the man who so obviously looked
up to her and her paintings had quite possibly tried to recreate them in blood. That this wasn’t the first
colleague she’d been allowed to talk with in over two years. This was a suspect in a string of
murders that’d destroyed her life.
Raider unpocketed a photo taken from the crime scene at her gallery. “Ms. Gentry and I have
studied your traditional works, Mr. Boone, but we’re more interested in this piece.”
Boone took the photo. Three distinct lines deepened between his eyebrows as he slipped a pair of
glasses from his blazer and set them over his nose. “This is one of Becks’s. Breathe. But the coloring
is all wrong. Looks to me like a poor forgery. Is that…” His attention broke free from the photo and
ping-ponged between her and Raider. “Is that blood?”
“You tell us,” Raider said. “You see this section here? Becks recognized the use of layers. Says
you’re one of the only artists she knows who can create an effect like that. That it takes days of
patience and waiting for the paint to dry. Not a whole lot of artists are willing to make that kind of
effort anymore. Time costs money, and we all know how far painters are willing to go to make art
their life. That same kind of patience would be very useful in stalking and draining a victim for their
blood.”
Boone stared down at the photo, unmoving. Quiet. Stable. Nothing like the man who’d nearly
melted where he stood after he’d answered the door. It was as though a switch had been made, a
connection that hadn’t been used in a long time, and Becks had the urge to put several more feet
between them. “I can see why you might think that, but unfortunately, this looks fresh, and I haven’t
painted in months.”
“Then how do you explain the white paint crusted between your thumb and index finger?”
Raider’s gaze met her own, as though he was fully aware of all the splotches she carried beneath her
clothing.
 “Let me show you.” Boone handed back the photo and turned inside, leaving the door open for
them to follow. He headed along a wide entry way off what looked to be a sitting room at the front of
the house.
Raider held back. One second. Two. “You don’t have to do this. You can go back to the car. Wait
for me.”
“No.” Becks tried to infuse the small amount of confidence in her voice into the rest of her. “I
need to know.”
He took the lead ahead of her, drawing them into the front room. Light gray walls, beautiful
artwork—handprinted from what she could tell—and modern sofas accentuated the light hardwood
floors and made the room appear larger than it actually was. Greenery peppered random locations, a
taste of the outdoors inside. But there was a sterility here. Like something was missing.
Someone.
She hadn’t known about Boone’s wife, but it made sense it would’ve been one of the first things
Raider had looked into before showing up on the man’s doorstep. He was an academic, after all. A
researcher and an investigator who liked to know as much about a subject as possible before taking
the next step in the process. She’d recognized that tendency in herself at times, almost like a defense
mechanism.
Photos of a smiling couple—mid thirties in most of them—took up a large portion of the wall they
passed to keep up with Boone. One focused on a woman looking off to her left, a wide smile on her
face as she posed upright on a bed decorated with oversized pillows. Dark brown hair, cut just
beneath her ears, accentuated vibrant skin and a carefree demeanor. Her clothing, too, looked as
though the ensemble had come together naturally rather than with careful thought, a skill Becks had
never been able to pull off herself.
Maddie Boone?
They cut down a hallway of doors branching off into separate rooms. Boone turned to face them
from the nearest doorframe. “When I said I haven’t painted in months, I didn’t think this counted.”
Raider stepped aside enough to give her a straight view inside.
Light pink paint stretched from floor trim to ceiling with puffy white clouds added in intervals. A
mobile and crib had been positioned against the largest wall, with a fluffy rug and a rocking chair
filling the space. A nursery. “Your wife is pregnant?”
“Five months along.” Boone studied his own work, though Becks only noted the bone-deep
sadness carved around his eyes. She hadn’t lied before. She remembered him. And his work. He was
thinner now, but whether that was from the past five days of his wife missing or over the course of the
last two years, she couldn’t even begin to guess. “I promised her I’d have all the painting done a
month ago. You know how pregnant women can get. She wanted everything ready in case the baby
came early.” An unexpected scoff escaped his chest as he scrubbed a hand down his face. “Everything
was supposed to be better.”
That last word stood out among all the others.
Raider’s phone pinged with an incoming message. He was quick to scroll through whatever it was
as Becks moved to step into the room. A strong hand stopped her short. Raider turned his screen
toward her, his thumb pointing out one line of what looked like a report.
DNA match: Madison Boone.
Her stomach dropped then revolted with a charge of acid.
“Mr. Boone, can you tell us where you were this morning around 2:30am?” Raider folded the
crime scene photo and slid it back into the inner pocket of his suit jacket.
 “I was here. I’m always here.” Boone motioned to the house overall, but Becks couldn’t help but
feel he’d meant literally. He’d been waiting in this room. Taking in the soft white clouds, the tiny
clothes hanging in the closet. The pacifiers waiting on the dresser. But had he been waiting for his
wife and daughter to come home, or had he been waiting for police to uncover the truth? “Ever since
Maddie… I’ve just been waiting by the phone. I can’t sleep. I can’t eat. The detective on the case said
he would be in touch, but I haven’t heard anything. Can you call him? Can you get any updates? I’m
going out of my mind here.”
Pressure built behind her ribcage as the seconds distorted, one after the other.
“Can anyone corroborate you were here at that time?” Raider asked.
Confusion contorted Lars Boone’s stoic expression. His gaze bounced to Becks, as though she
held all the answers he’d been waiting for, but she didn’t have anything to give. “Why would I need
someone to corroborate I was in my own house alone, waiting for the police to call? What’s going
on?”
“Mr. Boone, the painting I just showed you was left in Ms. Gentry’s gallery around 2:30am this
morning based on an alarm being triggered in the building.” Raider’s voice took on a hardness she’d
never heard. “The canvas was painted in blood, as you’d concluded. Techs sent a sample of that
blood to the crime lab for testing, but they also compared it to DNA of any missing persons in the area
to identify the victim. They got a hit.”
“I don’t understand,” Boone said. “What does that have to do with…” His skin paled, aging him
ten years in a matter of seconds. He shook his head and backed up a step. Then another. His lower
back ran into the dresser and knocked the package of pacifiers to the floor. “No. It’s not possible.
No.”
A part of Becks urged her to reach out, to provide some kind of comfort, but she didn’t know how.
She’d spent so long trying not to think of the pain and grief and loss of the victims’ families… She felt
a numbness take hold. First in her fingers, then spreading up her arm. It was uncomfortable and
assaulting, and she wanted nothing more in that moment than to go back to her room. Where pain
wasn’t allowed to visit.
“The initial comparison is a match for Madison Boone.” Raider folded both hands in front of him.
The lines at the corners of his eyes were more pronounced than a moment before. This was what he
did outside of their weekly interviews. This was what he’d tried to keep to himself, what he’d
protected her from for the past two years. “I’m sorry for your loss, but I’m going to have to ask you a
few more questions.”
Boone gripped the edge of the dresser. He seemed to gain some semblance of logic then. “My
loss? You said her blood was used to paint that piece. She could still be alive. She could be out there
right now, waiting for someone to find her. Please, you have to find her. Before it’s too late.”
Becks set her hand on Raider’s shoulder and stepped forward. “Mr. Boone, you know how much
paint it takes to create layers the way you do. And how long. The canvas alone was four feet by four
feet.” She didn’t want to say it. She didn’t want to face the reality she’d hidden from these past two
years. But Raider believed in her. Needed her. “The human body can’t survive that.”
Boone started shaking then. The sadness, the pain, the anger—it seeped to the surface and
manifested in the small muscles hardening along his jaw. “It’s all my fault.”
She had the sudden urge to take a step back.
Raider maneuvered in front of her so easily, she hadn’t even processed her need for him to do so
until he’d taken position between her and a potential threat. His hand moved one side of his suit
jacket aside. Access to his weapon. “What’s your fault?”
 “Maddie. The baby. I thought we could have a normal life.” Boone’s knuckles threatened to break
through the backs of his hands as he fisted them at his sides. “I thought we could be happy. She was
helping me be better, but someone must’ve figured it out. They knew it was me.”
“What did they figure out?” Becks hadn’t meant to ask, but a piece of her had already started
filling in the answers.
That same dark gaze that’d longed for his wife to come home turned hard. “That I’m the one who
killed them. All of them.”
 CHAPTER F OUR

“YOU FOUND HIM.” CAPTAIN GRIER CALLUM STUDIED THE CUFFED MAN ON THE OTHER SIDE OF THE
one-way glass. Seattle PD’s first female captain had climbed the ranks faster than any other officer in
the city’s history, achieving her position in less than ten years after graduating from the academy. It
was a testament to her competitive nature and compulsion to rise above any obstacle put in her way.
Discrimination, expectations, disrespect—women in law enforcement constantly battled to prove they
were equal—if not more qualified—to their male counterparts, but Grier had become a figure for
every one of them to look up to. “The Canvas Killer.”
Raider hated that moniker. Not only had it fed the media frenzy and stroked Boone’s ego, but it
failed to account for the victims still out there. “Forensics were never recovered at any of the six
locations the paintings were left. According to his statement, Lars Boone wore personal protective
gear to contain his DNA at each drop off. His confession alone won’t be enough to convict. If we
want to nail him for the newest painting in the gallery, we’ll need something more.”
Becks stared straight through the glass beside him. Unmoving, shut down. A war ripped at his
insides, one between going in that interrogation room or staying at her side to provide some
semblance of strength she could lean on. She’d never been an open book, but he’d known her long
enough to recognize when she was withholding herself.
“The disappearance of his wife helps.” Grier kept her posture in line and her head high. Any
break in composure would equal failure in her mind. It was why she kept her nails unpolished, her
face makeup-free, and her hair pulled back. A failed attempt to blend in. “He filed a missing persons
report two days after she’d reportedly vanished. And what are the chances she was murdered with the
same MO her husband followed with his kills?”
“Hard to prove murder without a body.” That was the problem. They had evidence. They had a
list of victims whose DNA matched that found on the canvases delivered to Becks two years ago, but
blood alone wouldn’t give them manner of death or a death scene. Without autopsies, they had
nothing.
“Then let’s bring them home.” Grier wrenched open the observation room door and rounded into
interrogation, bringing Lars Boone’s attention up. It wasn’t protocol for a captain of a department to
get involved in an investigation, but Raider couldn’t take the chance of any mistakes being made. Not
with Becks involved.
“I’ll be right back. If you need me, just tap on the glass.” A slight angling of her chin was all the
answer he got before following the captain into interrogation. In Becks’s current state and history of
shutting herself off from the world, it’d been the best he could hope for.
 Once inside, Grier took her seat across the steel table from the suspect. “Mr. Boone, I’m Captain
Grier Callum. You’ve met Agent King.”
“I already gave my statement. I told you I didn’t have anything to do with Maddie’s disappearance
or that painting that showed up this morning. You’re wasting time. My wife is out there. My baby—”
Boone set himself back in the chair. “Please, just tell me you’re still looking.”
“The FBI has assigned an agent from our serial task force to find your wife, Mr. Boone,” Grier
said. “Agent Wells is one of the best investigators we have at our disposal, and she is doing
everything she can to bring Maddie and the baby home safely as we speak.”
The tension in Boone’s hands released. But only slightly. Because there was still the reality that
he’d never get to enjoy the life he’d planned with his wife and daughter.
“You’re right. You told us everything, and I believe you when you say you didn’t have anything to
do with your wife’s disappearance, but that doesn’t atone for the fact you confessed to the murders of
six other women.” Raider paged through the five-page handwritten statement signed by Lars Boone. It
was all there. How being rejected from putting together his own exhibit in Becks’s gallery triggered
an obsession with her work to be better. How he’d systematically chosen and targeted his victims,
how he’d drained them by hanging them upside down by their feet in one of the closed warehouses by
the water, where he’d acquired the EDTA to prevent the blood from coagulating so he could use it to
recreate Becks’s work. The pages were filled with information Raider hadn’t acquired on his own
during the initial investigation and that he hadn’t been able to garner from his interviews with Becks.
A team had already been dispatched to the warehouse to process it for evidence, and SensorVault—a
database of every active cellular device on the planet—had confirmed Boone’s phone was at his
home early this morning. “There’s just one thing missing. Where to find the bodies.”
Boone stared down at his hands then pulled them back beneath the table. “I want to talk to Becks.”
A protectiveness Raider hadn’t let influence his study or his investigations burned through him.
Whether she intended to or not, Becks had led them straight to the man who’d slaughtered six people
in her name. Putting her in a room with the very reason she’d lost her career, her family, and her
ability to cope with the world would not only push her to retreat back into the traumatized woman
she’d left behind but center her in physical danger. Men like Boone, the ones who got off on
controlling and manipulating victims, didn’t see Becks as off limits. They didn’t have boundaries or
rules to keep them from destroying the very object of their obsession, and there was no way in hell
Raider would give him the chance.
“That’s not going to happen.” He set his elbows on the table. “We’ve already got you on six
counts of murder one. So here’s what is going to happen, Boone. You’re going to give us the locations
of those six victims so their families can get the closure they deserve. Then you’re going to prison for
a very, very long time. And if, by some miracle, you get to see your wife and daughter before you die,
it will be because you showed an ounce of compassion for the people you killed.”
A laugh choked out of Boone. Unsettling and piercing.
“You like her. Becks. I can tell, and I get it. I mean, what’s not to like? I can’t count how many
times I dreamed of getting a closer look at her hands. So full of passion, sacrifice. I’ve always
believed art is as close to godliness as the human mind can get. Take it from me, that level of
creativity is enough to drive a man to kill for her,” Boone said. “But you and I both know you’ve got
nothing unless you recover those bodies, Agent King. Because if you did, you would’ve used it to
arrest me years ago. So here’s what going to happen. You and your friend here are going to walk out
of this room. You’re going to bring Becks in here, and you’re going to leave us alone to talk.”
The mask of the grieving husband had vanished. Now, all that was left was the monster beneath.
Lars Boone wasn’t a sex offender. Raider had the feeling he didn’t torture his victims more than
necessary to get what he wanted out of them. No. Instead, he had a mission. A drive to create
something unique and lasting, something that would outlive him and put him at the top of the ranks in
the art world. That combination alone wasn’t enough to make a person inherently evil, but, coupled
with obsessive tendencies and rejection, it was a hell of a toxic cocktail.
The weight of Grier’s attention pinned Raider to the chair. They had a choice: put Becks in a
position to face the nightmare she’d run from and retrigger her mental break or fail to bring home six
victims to their families.
Three knocks tapped against the one-way glass behind him.
His nerves threatened to break through his skin. Becks. Raider tried to ignore the dread pooling at
the base of his spine. She was going to do it. He already knew. She was going to put herself in danger
to help the victims targeted because of her. “Don’t go anywhere.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it, Agent King.” Boone smiled up at him, pulling his wrists above the table.
Grier followed close on his heels, securing the door behind them. Two officers moved into
position on either side. No one in or out without authorization.
Becks swung the door inward before he had a chance to set foot back in the observation room.
Determination—not unlike the glimpse he’d noted in her private room this morning—squared her
shoulders. “I’ll do it.”
“Wells is back. I’ll catch up with you in a few minutes.” Grier headed for her office where
Raider’s partner—Rowan Wells—nodded in greeting from the other side of the station. It was unusual
to spot the former state trooper without the task force’s prosecuting attorney, Faust Hardwin, but his
gut warned this wouldn’t be a run-of-the-mill investigation.
No room for personal matters or distractions.
Raider blocked Becks off from the rest of the station, still managing to give her enough room to
duck out if she needed. “I know you think you have to do this, Becks, but we’ve already got the
location where Boone killed his victims, which is a lot more than we had when we started this
morning. It’s only a matter of time before we find them now.”
“Time their families deserve.” Her attention diverted to the glass. She lowered her voice, an
aching sadness softening her expression. “They’ve already lived without knowing what happened to
their daughters, and sisters, and mothers for two years, Raider. They can’t move on, and I’m the only
one he’ll talk to. I’m the only one who can help.”
“This is a game to him. All he wants is to prove he’s surpassed you in every way, that he’s beaten
you, and that your rejection hasn’t affected him all this time.” Nervous energy shifted him from one
foot to the other. She’d set herself on the edge of a blade. Tipped one way, Raider could only see her
getting hurt in the end. “Going in there will only give him what he wants. And it might undo everything
you worked for since you checked yourself into that hospital.”
“I know.” Her shoulders rose on a strong inhale. Becks set her chin higher as she maneuvered
around him. “But that’s a risk I’m willing to take.”
He couldn’t stop her, but at the same time, Raider recognized what she was doing was admirable
and a significant step in her recovery. He turned to the officers stationed outside the door.
“Anything feels off, you leave. No matter how small. I’ll be watching.” His heart threatened to
beat straight out of his chest the moment Becks stepped into the interrogation room. He set himself up
on the other side of the glass, watching her every move. The way her hand shook as she reached for
the chair he’d occupied, the way goosebumps prickled along the back of her neck beneath the low bun
she’d tied in her hair.
 Boone stared up at her with a healthy dose of superiority and amazement as she took her seat
across from him. “I wasn’t sure you’d come.”
Unfamiliar protectiveness surged. Raider turned the volume up on the intercom system, relieving
the pressure in his chest. But only slightly.
“Well, I’m here.” Her voice crackled through the speaker. Nothing compared to the echo that’d
lived in his head over the past two years. Becks threaded her hands together in her lap. “You said you
wanted to talk to me alone. Why don’t we start with where you hid the bodies of your victims?”
Boone’s intense gaze flickered up, over Becks’s shoulder, as though he knew exactly where
Raider was standing. “I’d rather talk about you, Becks.”
“Son of a bitch.” Raider gripped the ledge of the window to keep himself from barging in there
and ripping Becks out. She was right before. She was the only one who could get the information they
needed, but at what cost?
“What about me?” she asked.
“Tell me how you felt when you realized your work had ended the lives of six women.” That half-
cocked smile engrained itself in Raider’s mind. “It was hard to see your reaction through the window
when you opened that first package. The sun was in my eyes.”
Every muscle in Raider’s body tightened with battle-ready defense. The bastard had been
watching her. Delivering his packages, then hanging around to see the results of his mind game. It was
a theory he’d toyed with during the investigation, but they’d never found any evidence of stalking. No
reported break-ins from residents or businesses around the gallery. No fingerprints on the canvases to
compare.
“I don’t remember.” Becks swiped her palms the length of her jeans beneath the table, out of sight,
but Boone seemed to realize he’d hit the mark.
“I don’t believe you, Becks.” Boone leaned forward, lowering his voice. “I know you’ve
convinced yourself that if you can do something good for those victims, that your fear, your doubts you
have about yourself, the loneliness will all go away. That you can go back to your life right where you
left off and everything will come up rainbows and sunshine. Am I getting close?”
Raider found himself listening with everything he had for her response, but Becks wasn’t giving
one. Just as she hadn’t in their sessions during the study.
Frustration burned in Boone’s voice. “If you don’t answer my question, you don’t get an answer to
yours. That’s how you play the game.”
“It felt like a betrayal. Is that what you want to hear?” The words escaped more forcefully than
Raider expected. “The police and FBI were asking me all these questions, and I didn’t have the
answers. I didn’t know who’d corrupted my work or why they’d want to in the first place. I’d spent
years overcoming my parents’ expectations to build a life I was proud of, and you took it away from
me. I was angry and being crushed by guilt for not feeling something for the victims who suffered for
it, and I’ve hated myself ever since.”
Undeniable satisfaction released the tension in Boone’s features. He sat back in his chair. “There.
Now doesn’t it feel good to get the secrets we’re too embarrassed to say out loud off our shoulders? I
wonder if your pet agent has heard that one. Can’t imagine he’s the one you turn to with those dark
parts of yourself.”
Raider released the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. All this time, in all of their
interviews together, she hadn’t trusted him enough to tell him the truth. And he wanted that. He wanted
to be that person for her despite the professional boundaries between them. Because she had no one
else. Then again, when had he allowed himself to share those pieces of himself he kept close to the
vest?
“Is that what your wife was to you? Some kind of sin eater?” Becks asked. “Did she know what
you did in your spare time? How many people you’d hurt?”
A tangle of grief speared into Boone’s eyes. “I’ve always wanted to make a name for myself, but
Maddie… She made me realize there would never be an end. No amount of success would be good
enough. Not even if I finally gave myself permission to kill you. She gave me something more.
Something real. She was the best of me. She understood me. Everything I’ve done, she forgave. And
she made me want to get better. To let all the bad parts stay in the past.” Boone leveled his gaze on
Becks, the set of his mouth hard, and Raider found himself inching closer to the observation room
door. “I’d hate to think of what I’d become if she turns up dead.”
 CHAPTER F IVE

S HE COULD STILL FEEL A FILM OF EVIL ON HER.

It was burrowing beneath her skin. Penetrating her pores. Becoming part of her. The harder Becks
tried to ignore it, the tighter its grip became. Though she’d known the risk when she’d agreed to step
into the same room as a killer. There should’ve been a reward for that. For getting the locations of six
victims who’d only existed in abstract.
Salt and humidity from Puget Sound teased her senses as Raider unlocked the safe house door.
The itch to shower as soon as possible ate at her every thought.
She’d sold her condo before checking herself into the mental ward. The money was sitting in an
account earning interest, but every available hotel room they’d found contained a single room with
two beds. And she needed to disappear. Needed to be alone and let go of the pressure to hold it
together. An FBI safe house had been the only option with two separate rooms. Though a condo on the
water seemed a bit too luxurious for a federal escape.
Raider shoved the door wide. “Whoa!”
A large pitbull launched itself up his chest and knocked him backward. He dropped his keys as
Becks backed into the hallway. Her heart kickstarted up her throat and failed to come down. Even as
the animal started licking Raider’s neck and chin.
“That’s my girl.” He scratched up and down her back with both hands. “It’s okay. Fifi is very
friendly. She’s only dangerous if I give her certain commands. Otherwise, she’s a giant baby.”
“Fifi. You know this dog?” Becks tried to catch a thread of calm in the midst of her fight or flight
reflex rocketing out of control. Her palms ached from the half-moons her nails embedded in her skin.
“Since she was a puppy.” Raider let Fifi back onto all fours, and the dog raced through the condo,
her nails sharp on the hardwood floor. “She’s mine.”
His. The dog was his. Understanding hit. This place was his. Becks couldn’t force herself to take
another step. There’d been a part of her that’d wanted to know him on a personal level, especially
given she’d been the one to expose the most minute details of her life in a study meant to save
potential victims, but he wasn’t supposed to throw her into the deep end. “You said… You said you
were taking me to a safe house.”
“This is a safe house. It just so happens to be mine.” Sympathy smoothed the lines from around his
mouth. “I know what this looks like, but I also know you need someplace quiet and isolated to
decompress from what happened today. And after your conversation with Lars Boone, I wasn’t
comfortable letting you out of my sight. Can’t get any safer than a federal agent and his trusty pitbull
guarding the door.” He took a step toward her, and Fifi’s whine filled the hallway. “It’s getting late,
and you’re barely holding it together. If you’re uncomfortable with this arrangement, I can find
something else, but I thought this would be the best option.”
Logic battled with discomfort. She’d gone straight from living with her parents to a private room
in college, to living on her own above the gallery and into a secluded room in the ward. She’d needed
that isolation to create, to paint, to unravel all the expectations and pieces of herself she didn’t want
to keep. She… She didn’t know how to do that with someone else. Let alone the federal agent who
viewed her as a means to an end for his study. But he was right. About her barely holding it together.
She couldn’t pretend Lars Boone hadn’t affected her much longer. And that left her without much
choice. “Is there a guest bedroom?”
“There is.” Raider maneuvered to one side, giving her room to cross the threshold. Warm
hardwood beckoned her inside, contrasted by exposed beams along a twenty-foot ceiling. Five
windows, perfectly centered on a black feature wall, created a breathtaking landscape of Puget
Sound. It was industrial and masculine, and it fit what little she knew of Raider perfectly.
Becks stepped inside. A feeling of lightness took hold in the large space, as though she’d been
here before. Which didn’t make sense because she hadn’t. It was the sensation of not having to force
herself to shrink down to fit into the room. Here, she could breathe. She let the overnight bag she’d
packed at the hospital slip from her shoulder into her hand, a little at a loss of what to do next. “This
place is incredible.”
“Does the job.” Raider moved past her more gracefully than a man of his size should. Fifi had
taken up watching her from a worn and scratched cushion on the leather couch as Becks took in a
sleek, modern kitchen accented with deep teal cabinets and stainless steel. Minimalist but powerful.
Just like him. “Guest room is up the stairs.”
An iron spiral staircase swirled upward to an open second level above the kitchen. Gleaming
guardrails stretched across the condo from one end to the other with a basket on a rope pulley hitched
to one side. No walls. Completely exposed. But judging the layout of this place, the only other option
would be to take over Raider’s bedroom, and she doubted Fifi would be so accommodating.
Exhaustion set in. Not the physical kind she’d welcomed after her long runs in the ward gym but a
complete mental rawness she wasn’t strong enough to endure after today. Becks gripped her bag
tighter than necessary, not sure how to tell the man who’d studied her for two years that she needed to
be alone. “I appreciate this. I just… I need a few minutes—”
“You don’t have to explain yourself to me, Becks. Do what you’ve gotta do.” He motioned her up
the stairs. “I’ll be in the kitchen if you need me.”
Her emotional barricade broke then. The weight of facing off with Lars Boone had disrupted her
carefully guarded world, and she didn’t have the energy to try to put it back together. Becks clawed
her way up the narrow spiral staircase as the pressure seeking release crested.
One more step. That was all she managed before she cracked. She dropped her overnight bag and
fell into the queen-sized bed that looked as though it’d been made up specifically for her. High thread
counts worked to distract her senses, but it was still too much. Too much input. Too much to process.
Her skin felt as though it were on fire, and she didn’t know how to make it stop.
Images of her sitting across from Lars Boone, of telling him her most shameful secret, of admitting
to him and to herself that she wasn’t the woman either of them had believed—it tore and scratched at
her until she couldn’t breathe. There’d been disappointment in his expression. Gutting and familiar.
A sob choked free from her chest, and Becks buried her face in a pillow to keep Raider from
hearing. He’d given her the courage to break free of living in her own shadow and do something good
for once. He’d given her a place to stay. She wouldn’t supply one more reason for him to think she
couldn’t do this. That she couldn’t make it on the outside. She just had to make it stop.
“Becks.” Weight dipped one side of the mattress, but Raider didn’t move to touch her. “I’m here.
What do you need?”
Reassurance wasn’t going to make the painful overload stop. She’d lost the tight control she’d put
in place during her stay in the ward. There was nothing here to hold onto. Becks pinched her eyes
shut. The sunlight coming through the windows was too bright. Too hot. Everything was too much, and
she didn’t see a way out. “It hurts.”
The mattress bounced back a split second before strong arms drove beneath her shoulders and
knees. Raider hefted her against his chest. Gravity increased its hold on her stomach as he dropped to
his knees and slid her beneath the bed.
Hardwood bit into the back of her head and her hips, but it was nothing compared to being
suffocated by cloud-like bedding. The sun couldn’t reach here with the sheets and comforter
overhanging the edge of the mattress either, and Becks dared to open her eyes. Her heart thundered in
her chest, but she was somehow able to take a full breath. Minute by minute, she came back to herself.
The judgmental and guilty thoughts were still there, waiting to skewer her all over again, but they
weren’t taking over.
She pressed her palms into the cool floor. Raider hadn’t said a word, giving her the time she
needed, but she could still feel him. A solid presence at the ready.
A tattooed hand broke through the covers with a glass of water with an angled metal straw. No
questions. No expectations for her to take it. He set it down and pulled back, giving her permission to
proceed on her own terms.
A dry aftertaste spread across her tongue, and Becks rolled over to take a drink. Cold liquid
dampened the residual effects of her panic attack and cleared her throat. She could see his outline
through the crack between the sheets and the floor. Patient. Waiting.
The reality of that simple effort hit her harder than the panic attack. No one had done that before.
Waited until she was ready. Not her parents. Not Dr. Fleck or the nurses in the ward. There’d always
been an expectation to pull herself together for others’ convenience. On their timetable. Not her own.
“How…how did you know to do that?”
“My dad used to suffer from sensory overload and panic attacks when I was growing up.”
Raider’s voice penetrated through the thin veil between them and soothed the edges where she still
felt sharp. It’d been his voice she’d heard over the years when the guilt reared its ugly little head. The
one that battled those demons on her behalf, and he was doing it again. “They called it sensory
processing disorder. Noises, especially loud or unfamiliar, would send him into an episode. I spent a
lot of time learning how to de-escalate him when it happened. Headphones, dark rooms, hard floors.
The less input, the better for him.”
Becks watched him from beneath the bed, temple to the floor. It was ridiculous, really. She knew
that. Him there, her on the other side of a sheet, hiding under the bed. But it felt right without the
pressure to perform for one another. He sat completely still, and a small part of her admired that. The
ability to ignore those impulses that said she had to be productive at all times, that she couldn’t have a
moment of quiet in case the pain returned full force. “How old were you?”
“I guess it started when I was around six.” One hand lifted from his knee then returned. “All the
way up until I had to leave.”
“Had to?” Becks hated that idea. Of him being forced from his own life, from the people he loved.
Whereas she’d spent her whole childhood trying to get out from beneath her parents’ thumbs. To
create something of her own.
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 RETREAT OF THE UNION ARMY.
The Federal troops remained in Springfield until Monday
morning, and then started on their retreat towards Rolla,
unmolested by the rebels. The enemy entered the town immediately
after its evacuation by the Federal forces, having suffered the loss of
a large portion of their tents, baggage and camp stores by the attack
of Sigel.
Hundreds of the inhabitants of this section were now compelled to
leave their homes, and the exiles were seen every day on the roads
leading to St. Louis, fleeing for refuge beyond the lines of the
insurgents, plundered of everything and destitute, having been
forced to abandon their homes and property to save their lives.
The loyal people who remained were favored with proclamations
by McCulloch and Price, which abounded in abuse and
misrepresentation of the Federal army, and were filled with
professions and promises which strikingly contrasted with their
administration and conduct.
This calamity was not merely disastrous by its positive loss, but it
gave a prestige of success to the rebel leaders, and afforded an
opportunity for them to increase the spirit of rebellion among the
people, as well as to nerve themselves to other enterprises. On the
17th, fifteen hundred recruits had assembled in Saline county, and
were preparing to join General Price, or to engage in local operations
in the surrounding counties. On the 18th, about one thousand men
from Chariton county crossed the Missouri at Brunswick, with a
large number of horses and wagons, on their march to join Price’s
division.
The rebels were so much elated with the death of General Lyon
and the abandonment of Springfield by the Federal troops, that they
became more reckless than ever in their depredations and
persecutions of the loyal citizens. In St. Louis on the 14th, after the
retreat became known, they became so bold and defiant that General
Fremont proclaimed martial law, and appointed Major J. McKinstry
as Provost-Marshal.
 On the 20th, a train on the Hannibal and St. Joseph’s railroad was
fired into, and one soldier killed and six wounded. The train was
immediately stopped, and two of the guerrillas were killed and five
captured.
Five days afterwards, on the 25th, Governor Gamble issued a
proclamation calling for forty-two thousand volunteers to defend the
State, restore peace and subdue the insurrection; the term of service
to be six months, unless sooner discharged.
 KENTUCKY.

Kentucky occupies a central position among the States, and is

about four hundred miles in length, by one hundred and seventy in
width at the widest point, where the State stretches from the
boundary of Tennessee across to Covington, opposite Cincinnati, on
the Ohio river. This river, from the Virginia line, follows a circuitous
course along the Kentucky border, a distance of six hundred and
thirty-seven miles, until it flows into the Mississippi at Cairo. The
Cumberland and Tennessee rivers pass through the western part of
the State, as they approach their confluence with the Ohio. Big Sandy
river, two hundred and fifty miles in length, forms for a considerable
distance the boundary between Kentucky and Virginia. The Kentucky
river rises in the Cumberland Mountains and falls into the Ohio river
fifty miles above Louisville. These geographical facts are necessary to
a perfect understanding of the struggles in that State, and are worthy
of remembrance.
When the President of the United States, on the 15th of April, 1861,
issued his proclamation, in which the Governors of the States that
had not already committed themselves to the cause of secession,
were called upon to furnish their quota of seventy-five thousand men
for the national defence, Beriah Magoffin, Governor of Kentucky,
replied by saying, that, “Kentucky will furnish no troops for the
wicked purpose of subduing her sister States.”
This act was looked upon with both sorrow and surprise by the
loyal people of that State, and was hailed with delight by the
Confederate Government at Montgomery. The rebel Secretary of War
congratulated Governor Magoffin on his “patriotic” response,
informed him that Virginia needed aid, and requested him to send
forward a regiment of infantry without delay to Harper’s Ferry.
Though sympathizing with the enemies of the Union, Governor
Magoffin was not prepared to set at defiance the wishes of the people
of Kentucky, and commit himself unqualifiedly to the work of
overthrowing the Federal Government.
Many of the prominent men of Kentucky, including a large number
of the wealthy citizens, were zealous in the promotion of the
secession interests. The most indefatigable efforts were made by
them to force the State into the ranks of the revolted States, and
thousands of her young men were induced to enlist, and encamp on
the adjoining borders of Tennessee, waiting for the hour when they
could sweep Kentucky with the rush of armed battalions, and
overwhelm her peace and prosperity with the clash of arms, and the
thunders of artillery. The loyal sentiment was, however, in the
ascendant, although it was subdued and overawed to a considerable
extent. Between the two forces, therefore, it was deemed expedient
by her rulers that Kentucky should hold a neutral position, and not
ally herself with either the Federal or the Confederate interest.
To render this neutrality more certain, on the 8th of June, General
S. B. Buckner, then the acknowledged commander of the State
militia, entered into negotiations with General McClellan, at
Cincinnati, the terms of which stipulated that Kentucky should
protect the United States property, and enforce all the United States
laws within her limits—that her neutrality should be respected by the
Federal army, even though the Southern forces should occupy her
soil; “but in the latter case General McClellan should call upon the
authorities of the State to remove the said Southern forces from her
territory;” if the State were unable to accomplish this, then the
Federal forces might be called in.
This negative position was found, however, to be one of positive
advantage and aid to the traitors. They desired to secure a “masterly
inactivity” on the part of loyal men, of which they might avail
themselves by secret organizations. Taking advantage of this
confessed neutrality, large numbers of the young men of Kentucky
were enticed into Buckner’s camp; while bodies of men from
Tennessee were thrown into several localities in the southern and
western portions of the State, and boldly avowed their determination
to march on Frankfort, the capital, and revolutionize the State. Home
Guards were organized by the loyal men, and it became apparent,
that if the tide were not resisted by active measures, there was no
security for Kentucky.
The election for members of the Legislature, however, early in
August, the result of which showed an overwhelming majority in
favor of the Union, signed the death-warrant of neutrality, and
thenceforth Kentucky was regarded as loyal to the Union. The
Legislature assembled at Frankfort on the 5th of September, ordered
the United States flag to be hoisted on the court-house, and
proceeded to adopt various measures calculated to promote the
Union cause in the State.

SECTION OF THE MISSISSIPPI RIVER.

SHOWING THE DISTANCES FROM

NEW ORLEANS.
 SECTION OF THE MISSISSIPPI RIVER.

SHOWING THE DISTANCES FROM

NEW ORLEANS.

The great Union majority now revealed gave such decided

evidence that Kentucky was not likely to be seduced from her loyalty,
that the secessionists became convinced of the necessity of
accomplishing their purpose by other means. The rebel forces were,
therefore, ordered to take possession of several important points,
which they did on the 4th of September, and commenced fortifying
Hickman and Columbus—the former being in the western part of the
State, near the line, and the latter some twenty-five miles further
north, on the Mississippi river. Generals Pillow and Polk now took
command of the rebel troops, and were soon reinforced, their
combined forces amounting to thirteen regiments of artillery, six
field batteries, a siege battery, three battalions of cavalry, three
steamers, and a gunboat. In the mean time, Jefferson Thompson,
with two regiments, took possession of Belmont, on the Missouri
side, opposite Columbus. The assumed neutrality having thus been
broken by this invasion, the Federal commander, General U. S.
Grant, then at Cairo, Illinois, lost no time in making a movement to
intercept the further progress of the rebels northward. He
accordingly sent a sufficient force up the Ohio, to the mouth of the
Tennessee river, and effected
 THE OCCUPATION OF PADUCAH.

On Thursday evening, the 5th of September, the gunboats Tyler

and Conestoga were ordered to convey the troops to Paducah. The
Ninth Illinois, under the gallant Major Philips, and the Twelfth
Illinois, Colonel John McArthur, with four pieces of Smith’s Chicago
Artillery, under Lieutenant Charles Willard, embarked on the
steamers G. W. Graham and W. H. B., and left Cairo at 11 o’clock, P.
M., the gunboat Tyler, Captain Rogers, leading, and the Conestoga,
Captain Phelps, in the rear. The fleet pushed out into the stream
amid the cheers of thousands of spectators, and steamed grandly up
the Ohio.
They reached Paducah about eight o’clock, A. M., on Friday, the 6th.
The troops were speedily disembarked. Colonel McArthur’s regiment
landed at the Marine Hospital, in the lower part of the city, and the
Ninth at the foot of Main street. The Twelfth found quarters at the
hospital, and the Ninth repaired to the depot of the Ohio and New
Orleans railroad. The citizens were sullen and unfriendly, and closed
their places of business.
On arriving at the depot the troops found that the rolling stock of
the road had all been removed, but a large quantity of stores for the
confederate army was discovered, and promptly seized. They were
marked for Memphis, New Orleans, and other points south, and
were worth about $20,000.
Captain Rogers immediately took possession of the telegraph
office. The post-office was next visited, and a large amount of rebel
correspondence secured. Five companies of infantry, and a battery of
Smith’s Light Artillery, Lieutenant Willard, were sent under Major
Philips down the railroad about seven miles without meeting any of
the rebel troops. Pillow was reported to be advancing, and a large
bridge and trestle work were burnt to prevent him from reaching
Paducah and falling upon the place by surprise.
A rumor became current that a large force of rebels from
Tennessee were on their way down the Tennessee river in
steamboats. To ascertain the facts, and to intercept their progress,
the gunboat Conestoga was dispatched up the river some thirteen
miles to watch the rebel movements, and to capture suspicious
vessels. Although no hostile forces were seen, a steamer was
discovered on Friday, which, on seeing the Conestoga, turned about,
was run ashore, and the officers and crew abandoned her. It was the
Jefferson, a small stern-wheel boat, loaded with a cargo of tobacco.
On Saturday the Conestoga captured a fine propeller, called the John
Gault, and a boat called the Pocahontas, belonging to John Bell, of
Tennessee. The prizes were all safely taken to Cairo.
The inhabitants of Paducah were now seized with panic, and large
numbers left the town, apprehending an attack from Pillow, in which
case they expected the gunboats would freely use shell. On Saturday
part of Colonel Oglesby’s Eighth regiment, the Forty-first Illinois,
and the American Zouave regiment, from Cape Girandeau, entered
the town, increasing the forces to about 5,000 men.
 THE REBEL TROOPS ORDERED TO
WITHDRAW FROM KENTUCKY.
On the 9th of September a dispatch from General Polk to Governor
Magoffin was laid before the Legislature, the substance of which was
that he had occupied Columbus and Hickman, on account of reliable
information that the Federal forces were about to possess those
points; that he considered the safety of Western Tennessee and of the
rebel army in the vicinity of Hickman and Columbus demanded their
occupation, and that, as a corroboration of that information, the
Federal troops had been drawn up in line on the river opposite to
Columbus prior to its occupation by them, causing many of the
citizens of Columbus to flee from their homes for fear of the entrance
of the Federal troops. General Polk proposed substantially that the
Federal and rebel forces should be simultaneously withdrawn from
Kentucky, and to enter into recognizances and stipulations to respect
the neutrality of the State.
But it was well known that the cry of neutrality was only an
invention of the enemy to work his plans in Kentucky, so that when
the appointed time should come Kentucky would swarm with rebels
from Tennessee and Virginia; and two days afterwards both branches
of the Legislature, by a vote of 71 to 26, adopted a resolution
directing the Governor to issue a proclamation ordering the rebel
troops then encamped in the State to evacuate Kentucky. A counter-
resolution, ordering both Federal and rebel troops to leave the soil,
was negatived under the rules of order. Governor Magoffin
accordingly issued a proclamation to the effect that “the government
of the Confederate States, the State of Tennessee, and all others
concerned, are hereby informed that Kentucky expects the
Confederate or Tennessee troops to be withdrawn from her soil
unconditionally.”
 ATTEMPT TO FORM A REVOLUTIONARY
GOVERNMENT IN THE STATE.
After this decisive action of the Legislature, which effectually
destroyed the hopes entertained by the conspirators of obtaining a
semblance of legal authority for their designs, their next expedient
was to hold an informal meeting at Russelville, a small town in the
southern portion of the State, on the 29th of October. Here they drew
up a declaration of grievances, in which they charged the majority of
the Legislature with having betrayed their solemn trust, by inviting
into the State the “armies of Lincoln,” with having abdicated the
government in favor of a military despotism, and thrown upon the
people and the State the horrors and ravages of war. They
recommended the immediate arming of a “Guard” in each county, of
not less than one hundred men, to be paid as Confederate troops,
subject to the orders of the “Commanding General.” Finally, they
called for a Convention to be held at Russelville, on the 18th of
November, to be “elected, or appointed in any manner possible,” by
the people of the several counties, for the purpose of “severing
forever our connection with the Federal Government.”
John C. Breckinridge, late Vice President of the United States, was
appointed one of the commissioners to carry out the orders of the
convention. This Convention met at the time designated, composed
of about two hundred persons, professing to represent sixty-five
counties, though self-appointed, and without any form of election.
On the 20th of November they adopted a “Declaration of
Independence, and an Ordinance of Secession,” and appointed a
“Provisional Government, consisting of a Governor, and a Legislative
Council of Ten,” and dispatched H. C. Burnett, W. E. Simms, and
William Preston, as commissioners to the Confederate States. On the
9th of December, the “Congress’” of the Confederate States, in
session at Richmond, passed an “Act for the admission of the State of
Kentucky into the Confederate States of America,” as a member “on
equal footing with the other States of the Confederacy.”
 George W. Johnson, of Scott county, who was chosen as
Provisional Governor, by the Convention, in his “Message,” declared
his willingness to resign “whenever the regularly elected Governor
[Magoffin] should escape from his virtual imprisonment at
Frankfort.”
Governor Magoffin, in a letter, dated December 13, 1861, says of
this Convention, “I condemn its action in unqualified terms. Situated
as it was, and without authority from the people, it cannot be
justified by similar revolutionary acts in other States, by minorities
to overthrow the State Governments. My position is, and has been,
and will continue to be, to abide by the will of the majority of the
people of the State, to stand by the Constitution and laws of the State
of Kentucky, as expounded by the Supreme Court of the State, and by
the Constitution and laws of the United States, as expounded by the
Supreme Court of the United States. To this position I shall cling in
this trying hour as the last hope of society and of constitutional
liberty.”
MILITARY MOVEMENTS OF THE REBELS IN
KENTUCKY.
While Pillow and Polk were invading the south-western part of the
State, General Zollicoffer was operating in the east. With some six
thousand rebels he came to Cumberland Ford—which is situated
near the point where the corner of Virginia runs into Kentucky—
capturing a company of Home Guards. On the 17th of September the
Legislature received a message from Governor Magoffin
communicating a telegraphic dispatch from General Zollicoffer,
announcing that the safety of Tennessee demanded the occupation of
Cumberland and the three long mountains in Kentucky, and that he
had occupied them, and should retain his position until the Federal
forces were withdrawn and the Federal camp broken up.
That portion of Kentucky lying west of the Cumberland river was
then declared under insurrectionary control, and Secretary Chase
instructed the Surveyor at Cairo to prevent all commercial
intercourse with that section, and to search all baggage and all
persons going thither. Just about the same time the gunboat
Conestoga captured the rebel steamers Stephenson and Gazelle, on
the Cumberland, and one of them was found to contain one hundred
tons of iron.
 DECISIVE MEASURES OF THE LOYAL
STATE GOVERNMENT.
When the seditious plans of General Buckner became too plain for
concealment, the Legislature found it necessary to depose him from
the command of the State troops, and General Thomas L. Crittenden,
a loyal citizen, was appointed to fill that position. Governor
Magoffin, in obedience to the resolutions and the enactments of the
Legislature, promptly issued a proclamation, authorizing that officer
to execute the purposes contemplated by the resolutions of the
Legislature in reference to the expulsion of the invaders, and General
Crittenden ordered the military to muster forthwith into service.
Hamilton Pope, Brigadier-General of the Home Guard (Union),
called on the people of each ward in Louisville to meet and organize
into companies for the protection of the city.
Great excitement existed at this time in Louisville. The Union
Home Guards began to assemble, while other Union forces were
arriving and being sent to different portions of the State. At nine
o’clock on the morning of the 18th, when the Government troops
reached Rolling Fork, five miles north of Muldragh’s Hill, they found
that the bridge over the fork had been burned by rebels under
General Buckner, who were then upon the hill.
The Legislature passed, over the veto of the Governor, a resolution
to the effect that, as the rebels had invaded Kentucky and insolently
dictated the terms upon which they would retire, General Robert
Anderson, the hero of Fort Sumter, one of Kentucky’s sons, should be
invited to take instant charge of that department, and that the
Governor must call out a sufficient force to expel the invaders from
her soil. General Anderson, who had been previously appointed by
the Government to command in Kentucky, responded to the call, and
on the 21st of September issued a proclamation calling upon the
people of Kentucky to rally to the support of the Union.
General S. B. Buckner, who had previously acted under neutrality
pretences, now gradually assumed an attitude of hostility, and in
September was openly arrayed against the Government. On the 12th
he issued an inflammatory proclamation to the people of Kentucky,
in which he declared that he sought to make no war upon the Union,
but only against the tyranny and despotism of the Federal
Government, which was about to make the people of Kentucky
slaves. By such means as these he aimed to arouse the freemen of
that State to arms and to rebellion. The proclamation was dated at
Russelville, while he was entrenching a position at Bowling Green,
about thirty miles from the Tennessee line, on the Louisville and
Nashville railroad.
Very soon the Government formed a new department, consisting
of Ohio, Indiana, and that part of Kentucky within a commanding
distance of Cincinnati, placing it under the charge of General
Mitchell, in order to relieve General Rosecranz in Western Virginia
and General Anderson of a part of their responsibility, and enable
them to give greater attention to their own specific departments. The
department under General Anderson seemed to require similar
military discipline to that of Annapolis and Maryland, and, as a
commencement, Martin W. Barr, the telegraphic news reporter of
the Southern Associated Press, the medium for the transmission of
correspondence from traitors at the North to rebels in the South, was
arrested, together with ex-Governor Morehead and Reuben T.
Murrett, one of the proprietors of the Courier, a rebel sheet.
 The State had now become a portion of the ground which was to be
so fiercely contested. Rebel journals and leaders made no
concealment of their purpose to wrest Kentucky from the Union at
every hazard. The Ohio river was to be the boundary of the Southern
empire, and notwithstanding the emphatic voice of her people, all
the energy of the combined forces of the rebel armies were to be
brought to bear upon the work. The fact could be no longer disguised
from the people, and the loyal men, finding that their patience and
confidence in the disloyal portion, with their previous consent to a
negative position of neutrality, were in vain, boldly declared that the
time had come to arouse and resist the impending ruin. The attempt
of the conspirators of the Cotton States to make Kentucky the battle-
field, along with Virginia, was to be defeated at every cost, and the
people, rising to a comprehension of their responsibility, hastened to
the work of organization and defence.
 Among the loyal men of the State to whom the highest honor is
due for their bold and stirring advocacy of the Union, and for the
most summary measures which patriotism and honor could dictate,
were Hon. Joseph Holt, and Hon. Lovell S. Rousseau, of the State
Senate, and the gifted divine, R. J. Breckinridge, D.D.
 NAVAL OPERATIONS.

At the commencement of hostilities the Government was

unprepared to meet the naval requirements incident to the contest
which had so suddenly been forced upon it. The necessity of a
stringent blockade of the entire southern coast had become
apparent; while the protection and supply of the naval stations in the
rebel States still in possession of our forces, and the recapture of
those which had been seized, required a navy vastly greater than that
at the command of the Government; and no time was lost in
preparing as far as practicable to meet this emergency.
Long before the attack on Fort Sumter, the enemy had given
evidence of a determination forcibly to destroy their relations with
the Government by seizing the revenue cutters belonging to the
United States stationed in the harbors of Charleston, Pensacola and
New Orleans, contemporaneously with their appropriation of the
forts, arsenals, marine depots and other property belonging to the
Government within the limits of the disloyal States.
Immediately upon the opening of hostilities, and to give the
pretence of law and authority to the proceedings now determined on,
Jefferson Davis, on the 17th of April, 1861, by proclamation, invited
men of every class, without regard to nationality, to become
privateers under letters of marque, to be issued by the Confederate
Government.
A “reward” of twenty dollars was offered by the Confederate
Congress for every life taken by these privateers in conflict with a
Federal vessel, and twenty-five dollars for each prisoner. In view of
the extensive commerce of the United States, the large number of
vessels sailing to all parts of the world, and the supposed inefficiency
of our navy, confident expectations were entertained by the rebels of
a rich harvest of wealth from this source, as well as of the destruction
of our commerce. The hope was also indulged that many vessels
would be secretly fitted out in northern ports to engage in this
enterprise. This hope soon proved to be futile; while the want of
proper vessels for the service in their own ports, and the scarcity of
able seamen, and, more potent than either, the rigorous blockade
that was soon established, presented insurmountable obstacles to
their plans. The English Government, by the Queen’s proclamation
of June 1, decided that privateers should not take prizes to any of her
ports; and France and Spain also declared that such vessels should
remain but twenty-four hours within their harbors, and prohibited
either confiscation or sale during such stay.
The first offensive act of the war on the part of our navy was the
attack on Sewall’s Point battery, in Virginia, on May 18, 1861. This
battery, then not completed, was situated at the mouth of Elizabeth
river, commanding also the entrance to James river. On the 18th the
United States steamer Star, two guns, and transport Freeborn, of
four guns, opened their fire and dislodged the enemy from their
entrenchments. During the night, however, the works were repaired
and occupied by a larger force. On the following day the steamer Star
again opened fire on them, and after exhausting her ammunition
retired.
On the 31st of May, the United States steamers Thomas Freeborn,
Anacosta and Resolute attacked the rebel batteries at the railroad
terminus at Acquia Creek. As the tide was out, the vessels could not
approach near enough to accomplish their reduction. On the
following day the fire was renewed by the vessels, under command of
Captain Ward, and returned by the enemy with spirit from three
batteries on the shore, and one on the heights above. They were soon
driven from the shore batteries, but that on the hill was at an
elevation which could not be reached by shot from the gunboats. The
vessels were struck several times, with but little damage, and two
men were wounded. The loss of the enemy was not ascertained.
On the 6th of June, while reconnoitering on the James river, the
steamer Harriet Lane discovered a heavy battery at Pigs Point, at the
mouth of the Nansemond river, opposite Newport News. She opened
fire on it to discover its character, and finding from the response that
it was too formidable for her guns, she withdrew, having five men
wounded in the encounter.
 On the 27th of June, Commander J. H. Ward of the steamer
Freeborn, accompanied by a party of men from the Pawnee, under
Lieutenant Chaplin, who were engaged in erecting a breastwork at
Matthias Point, on the Potomac, were attacked by a large force of the
enemy. The men on shore were exposed to a galling fire, but made
good their retreat in their boats, three only being wounded, taking all
their arms and implements with them. Commander Ward
immediately opened fire from his vessel on the attacking party, and
drove them to cover. While sighting one of the guns of the Freeborn,
Commander Ward was struck by a rifle ball, mortally wounded, and
died within an hour.
Captain James H. Ward was born in the year 1806, in the city of
Hartford, Connecticut. His early days were spent in the usual studies
of youth, and on the 4th of March, 1823, he entered the United States
service, sailing as midshipman, under Commodore McDonough, in
the frigate Constitution. After serving faithfully for four years with
McDonough, he was promoted to the position of lieutenant, and was
for some time attached to the Mediterranean service. Many years of
his life were spent on the coast of Africa, and he was also in the gulf,
as commander of the United States steamer Vixen. Nearly all his
naval life was spent on the ocean. For some time he had a very
responsible professorship in the naval school at Annapolis, and later
was in command of the receiving ship North Carolina. His talents
were not entirely devoted to naval affairs, for he is well known as an
author by his works, entitled “Steam for the Million,” “Ordnance and
Gunnery,” and “Naval Tactics.” The news of his death brought
sorrow to many, and his memory is safely embalmed in the heart of
an appreciating nation.