CSU reports back that there was salt on the floor. The killer is superstitious. Superstition at its core is irrational beliefs, particularly that some things are lucky and some are unlucky. Black cats, four-leaved clovers, spilled salt, horseshoes, numbers. A simple system for measuring amount can according to some beliefs influence life. 3, 9, 13 - all well-known from fairytales. 1,8,11 however...

"Alex Trowbridge." I hear my voice utter the words without having had any intention of doing so. They all abandon their discussion of how superstition can help them and instead look at me.

"Can I borrow a pen and paper?"

1,8,11 tattooed on every single victim. As much as I dislike papers written solely from google I have to admit it can be helpful at times. 1,8,11. I look numerology up on my phone. 1 is Independent, 8 is autoreactive, and 11 is instinctual. I find a translation chart and start with the first name that comes to mind.

Zoe

65 =11

8    =8

1,8,11

Wilson

9    6=15=6

531    5=14=5

5,6,11

John looks over my shoulder.

"Try Elena," he says.

Elena

5 51=11

    3 5=8

8+11=19=10=1

1,8,11

"Lindsay, who was the second victim?" he asks the blond woman.

"Joseph Ryan," she says. Everyone is watching my 1st-grade math now.

Joseph

    6  5  =11

1    1  78 =17=8

1,8,11

Ryan

71=8

9 5 =14=5

4,5,8

"Sabrina Mann."

Sabrina

    19  1 =11

1    29 5=17=8

1,8,11

Mann

1  =1

455=14=5

1,5,6

"That's how he chooses his victims? Based on numerology?" The dark-haired one with the square face takes the paper from me.

"Either that or this is one heck of a coincidence," John concludes.

"I want the name of every victim checked!" Each of them copies down the translation chart and start calculating. I check the names I don't need a file to know.

Lindsay

917=17=8

3    541=13=4

3,4,8

John

    6=6

1    85=14=5

5,6,11

Robert

    65=11

92 92=22

11,22,33

  "Karl," he says from behind me. "With a K, Catherine with a C. Your own name too."

Karl

    1=1

2    93=14=5

1,5,6

Catherine

15 9 5=20=2

3    541=13=4

2,4,6

Nicaa

9 11=11

5    3=8

I stop dead. A hushed mumble of chatter is surrounding me. I just stare at the paper. If I'm in the victim pool, why am I not dead? Why is he toying with me? Like a cat, playing with the mouse before devouring it. Like soulless Angel toying with Buffy. Or like Ruby manipulating Sam. The paper slides out of my hands. Karl is still standing behind me, now reading the numbers.

Bits of their conversation penetrate my panic.

"It doesn't fit. Aria equals 2,9,11 - or have I done something wrong?" Robert wants to know.

"I get Mark to 1,6,7."

"Keep going, there might still be a pattern here somewhere." I can hear him folding up the paper and putting it in a pocket.

"Is there something wrong?" Catherine is looking at me. I grab a new sheet of paper and put the pen to it. By the end of the hour, I still haven't written anything, but it doesn't matter. Every name has been checked, and though they don't all fit the 1,8,11 pattern, they do all fit some sort of pattern. Or almost all.

"Eight different strings of numbers."

"The two in France stand alone and a group of four is specific to Denmark, then there's one that is both in the US and in England with nine murders here and two there," the ash-blond Lindsay informs us.

"So we could be back to the multiple killers theory?" Karl asks.

"The handwriting analysis still says the tattoos were done by the same hand," Catherine reminds them.

"I want that rechecked." 

"Why is the tattoo completely consistent if the number strings change?" John asks.

"The behavior is basically a mess," Lindsay states. "Sometimes there's physical evidence left behind, like a fingerprint, but it seems planted - anyways the person it belongs too always has an alibi. The torture differs from time to time, sometimes it's limbs cut off, sometimes it's old fashioned torture devices, or animal mutilations. You name it, they've done it." John looks sick at the thought of it.

"Do the methods correlate in any way with the number groupings?" Karl demands. Lindsay goes through the files again. Sorting the torture methods into categories she matches each category to a number group.

"They even match locations for the most part," she remarks. "7,8,8 is in Indiana, 2,9,11 is in Connecticut, and 1,8,11 is in New York."

Looking at her categories I draw up a timeline for the past couple of months and fill in the groupings.

"11 people were tortured with old fashioned instruments, and then a single one about two and a half months later. 9 people were killed but not tortured, then 2 more in England about two and a half months later. 8 had limbs cut off before they were killed. 6 were attacked by animals. 8 were burned." I count.

"It matches the numeric values of the victims' names," Catherine says. "1,8,11. First 11 people, then 1, all tortured using old fashioned devices. 2,9,11. First 9 here, then 2 in London, none of them tortured at all. Your name determines how you die. And it could seem they are planning to go through every number in every category." Without saying the words, she still somehow managed to say it: I'm still on the menu. 1,8,11 still has 8 more people to kill. Karl catches my eye for a second before taking out the paper and throwing it down in the middle of the table.

"I want a 24-hour protection detail on her." Silence spreads around the table. Suffocating silence. None of them open the folded-up paper, but all of them realize what is written on it.

"Approximately two and a half months between each repetition?" Karl asks, interrupting the awkwardness.

"79 days between the 1,8,11 murders and 83 days between the 2,9,11 murders," Catherine counts.

"Today it's been 84 days since the last 7,8,8 murder," Lindsay informs us. At some time in the near future, someone is going to have their limbs cut off and their heart cut out.

"Can we predict a target group? Can we..." Can we do something, anything, to protect people. Too many variables, too many uncertainties. We can't predict a target; they can't protect anybody. For the next 10 minutes thoughts swim through the silence. You can see it in everyone's eyes: the far-flung hopes. No one speaks. No one comes up with anything. Minutes tick by. Silence increases, killing more and more thoughts.

I jump in my chair when Karl's phone rings and break the silence. The room holds its breath as he answers, depriving the rest of us the opportunity to breathe as well.

"When?" he nods as he listens. "MO? And the tattoo? We're working a lead here, let me know anything you find out." He hangs up again.

"They found Arabella Young, 16, about an hour ago." He doesn't explain anything else, we can all guess it. 7,8,8 is cutting off limbs.

"16?" Catherine whispers to her hand resting on the table.

This loss is worse somehow. At least it is for me, I don't know how the others have felt working against the clock all this time. It's not that it is personal, I didn't know Arabella. It isn't that is was somehow more gruesome than the others. It isn't that she was a young girl, she was older than Lucie had been. No, I had known beforehand.

"Is it just me, or does it feel like something is actually missing?" John breaks the silence. "I just mean that in both January and Marts we had three different types of killings; 1,8,11 and 2,9,11 and 7,8,8 in January, 5,6,8 and 1,6,7 and 1,8,11 in Marts, and even just this far in April we have 4,6,7 in Denmark, 2,9,11 in London, 2,6,8 in France, and now 7,8,8 in Indiana too; and yet there's nothing at all in February. It's like there's a gap there, or like we don't know about all the victims."

Before anyone can answer him a quiet knock on the door announces the presence of a newcomer. She's well dressed in a suit but with her auburn brown hair falling loosely in curls to her elbows.

"Joanna, hey," John greets her in surprise.

"You guys seem busy." She walks over and gives him a quick kiss.

"Yeah, not exactly the time to take it easy." Or in other words: 'What do you want, can't you see I don't have time.'

"I know about time pressure too. Makes it easy to forget things, I get it." Her voice is mild and understand, but with a hint in there too. He looks up at her, for the first time holding her gaze for more than a few hurried seconds.

"Monday, 8 o'clock?" she nudges unreproachfully.

"Right... I completely forgot," he states without apology in his voice. Typical him, never considering how his actions may affect others. A part of me remembers he was only 10 last I saw him, but I push that part aside. I have no use for feeling sorry for John Lucas or for excusing his behavior.

"I figured," Joanna replies, still calm and without accusation. "And as much as I'd appreciate a phone call next time, I'm actually not here about that." The calmness fades off her face and her features turn serious. "I need you to do something about him, John."

"What did he do this time?"

"I don't pay my secretary so she can spend her time talking to your father, she has more important things to do than get yelled at."

He hesitates for a moment, looking for a way out it seems. "I'll speak with him," he finally says. From what I remember about Mr. Lucas he is an agreeable man, more so than my father anyway. Then again, I was 10, maybe I shouldn't trust memory completely. Silence falls as John gets up and follows Joanna out the door. It seems almost like he's walking to his doom or something.

"Okay, we know that the next victim will have a name with the numeric values 7,8,8," Robert thinks out loud. "Can we in any way set up a system for checking names?"

"You mean like a computer program?" Catherine asks. "That should be doable."

"Considering the population of the US, the number of people with the names we know fit the numeric value, the population of New York..." Lindsay does the calculations. "There are between 350 and 400 potential victims in NY alone, and that's just the eight names we know of."

Sending out a warning is impossible, it would only create a panic. There's no way of protecting people except asking them to protect each other.

Despite the hopelessness of the situation they keep going through the night, searching for patterns. It's not likely to yield any results, but they do it, and they keep doing it as the hours tick away. They must have done it many times before: worked through the night, dreading the news that will come in the morning. This time it's different though, this time the likelihood of that dreaded call is almost certain.

Midnight strikes. There will be another murder within these 24 hours, and another after that. The certainty of this can only be avoided if these five Special Agents stop it. I don't envy them the burden.

I take my own sheet of paper and start calculating the names of people I know; neighbors, students, colleagues, my mother, everyone. Lindsay, evidently having thought that random names might as well be the names of people she knows, has done the same. She makes a file for all the possible targets we know; complete with numeric values, the nature of their connection to us, approximate date of next strings and where they live. There's nothing more we can do for now, and telling them would only be cruel.