So we moved forward, toward the barn door. Queen continued to play loudly inside. “I want to ride my bicycle! Bicycle! Bicycle!” This was a strange feeling, all of it. The Bureau had excellent resources for getting information, and their personnel were certainly book smart and well trained, but in the past I’d always known and trusted those I went into a dangerous crime scene with.

The wooden barn door hadn’t been latched or locked by Taylor. We could see that as we crouched in tall brush a few yards away.

Suddenly the music stopped.

Then I heard loud voices inside. More than one. But I couldn’t make out what was being said or who was doing the talking.

“We should take him down. Now,” I whispered to Powiesnik. “We’re already committed. We have to go.”

“Don’t tell me —”

“I’m telling you,” I said.

I wanted to take over from Powiesnik. He was hesitating much too long. Once we had moved so close to the barn, we shouldn’t have stopped.

“I’ll go first. Come in behind me,” I finally said.

Powiesnik didn’t overrule me, didn’t argue. Katz didn’t say a word.

I ran very quickly toward the barn, my gun out of my holster. I was there in seconds. The door made a heavy creaking sound when I pulled it open. Bright light escaped outside, splintering into my eyes for a second. “FBI!” I yelled at the top of my voice. FBI! Jesus!

Taylor looked at me and his eyes filled with surprise, fear. I had a clear shot at him. He’d had no idea he was being followed. He’d been operating in his own private safety zone, hadn’t he? I could see that now.

I could also make out someone else in the shadows of the barn. He was tied with leather bindings to a wooden post attached to a beam in the hayloft. He had no clothes on. Nothing. His chest and genitals were bloodied. But Francis Deegan was alive!

“You’re under arrest . . . Mr. Potter.”

Chapter 76

Chapter 76

THE FIRST INTERVIEW with Potter took place in his small library in the farmhouse. It was cozy and tastefully furnished, and gave no hint of the horrible acts going on elsewhere on the property. Potter sat on a dark wooden bench with his wrists handcuffed in front of him. His dark eyes boiled over in anger directed at me.

I sat in a straight-backed chair directly across from him. For a long moment we glared at each other, then I let my eyes wander around the room. Bookcases and cabinets had been custom built and covered every wall. A large oak desk held a computer and printer, as well as wooden in and out boxes, and stacks of ungraded papers. A green wooden sign behind the desk read “Bless This Mess.” There was no hint of the real Taylor, or “Potter,” anywhere.