by Chris Culver
“I’m doing this without charge,” she said, raising her eyebrows. “My father was a police officer in St. Louis. It wasn’t an easy job. Some days, he’d come home so angry he couldn’t even talk to us. Other nights, he wanted to hold my sister and me for hours and whisper that he loved us.”
I paused and softened my voice. “You seem like a nice person. I can give you a list of names of other people in my station who need your help. I’m fine, but people liked Nicole and Preston. A lot of my colleagues are hurting right now.”
She nodded. “I’ll take that list, but it won’t stop me from asking you questions. If you don’t answer them, I’ll tell Sheriff Delgado that you’re not fit for duty. I’m on your side, but I still have to do my job. I can’t do that if you won’t even answer basic questions.”
My lips pursed as I considered. “So, we can talk about anything?”
“Yeah,” she said, nodding. “And remember our conversations are privileged. I can’t divulge their contents with anyone—even your boss—except under extraordinary circumstances.”
I drew in a slow breath and drummed my fingers on the armrest of my chair, trying to think of something innocuous that would get her attention.
“Somebody murdered my biological mother. You won’t find that in your files because I only found out last night.”
“Do you want to talk about that?”
“Not especially.”
“How’d your mom die?” asked Dr. Taylor.
“My mom lives in Kirkwood. She’s fine. Erin gave birth to me, but she wasn’t my mom. Someone shot her.”
“Do they know who did it?”
I stood and walked to the front window.
“No clue. It’s a cold case. It came up in the queue for review, and I know the detective assigned to check it out.”
“What happens now?”
I looked out the window at the street below. Most of the buildings in downtown St. Augustine were at least a hundred years old, but their owners maintained them well. The streets were clean, crime was low, and the schools sent a lot of kids to good colleges. It was the perfect small town.
Only, it wasn’t.
I could never put my finger on it, but I saw through the beautiful buildings and the neat sidewalks to something underneath. This town had a sickness at its core. I sensed it, just lurking beneath the surface. A cancer, a virus, a poltergeist. As much as I loved St. Augustine, this town was wrong.
I turned back to Dr. Taylor.
“Detective Blatch will check out any new leads. Then, he’ll pause the investigation until the next review.”
“And are you okay with that?”
I answered honestly. “No. Erin’s dead. She didn’t deserve that.”
The conversation was halting and slow, but we talked about Erin for the next half an hour. Dr. Taylor called that acceptable progress. The topic worked out well. Erin screwed up everything she touched, so she gave me a lot to talk about; plus, she was easy to talk about because I didn’t care about her. I might as well have been talking about monetary policy in sub-Saharan Africa for all the impact she had on my life. I should have brought her up in therapy sessions years ago. It would have made my teenage years a lot less annoying.
A few minutes before ten, Dr. Taylor ended the session and told me she’d see me in a few days. I lied and said I looked forward to it. As I left the room, my entire body felt heavy, and my throat ached. Goosebumps formed up and down my arms even as I stepped out into the day’s heat. Erin wouldn’t leave my mind. That was just like her. Even dead, she ruined my day.
I walked back to my truck and called Trisha to let her know I’d be in late. Since I had fired my weapon while on duty, and since I was seeing a therapist, my employment contract required the department to make reasonable accommodations with my work schedule. A morning off seemed reasonable.
I got inside my car and drove toward St. Louis. My hands turned the steering wheel and flicked on the turn signals without conscious direction from my mind. I was driving toward Dutchtown, an old neighborhood on the south side of town. Where hipsters and young professionals had gentrified many of the surrounding areas, Dutchtown had changed little from when Erin and I lived there.
Erin and I had lived in an apartment two blocks from Grand Boulevard. When my mom told me Erin had died, she said officers had found her body on a vacant lot about a block from that old apartment. She didn’t give me an address, but I recognized the lot from her description
As I approached the lot, I slowed and then stopped. Someone had put a white picket fence around the property, but an open gate led to a community garden. Neighborhood gardeners had planted tomatoes, cucumbers, peppers, and other vegetables I couldn’t recognize from the street. Daylilies bloomed everywhere. When she was alive, Erin had poisoned everything she touched. It was fittingly ironic that the place of her death had become a garden full of life.
My head felt clearer than it had when I left Dr. Taylor’s office, so I took out my phone and called my station.
“Hey, Trisha, it’s Joe,” I said. “I’m in south St. Louis right now. Tell Delgado I’ll be back to work the speed trap in about an hour.”
“I’m glad you called because you’re not working the speed trap today,” she said. “You’ve got another assignment.”
I closed my eyes and groaned.
“What fresh hell is this?”
“A farmer out on County Road 10 called to say he’s found tire tracks through one of his fields. Delgado wants you to check it out and make sure nobody’s hunting without a license.”
“Isn’t that the Department of Conservation’s turf?”
“Yep,” said Trisha.
I paused for a second. “Why are we investigating it?”
“Because the farmer knows Councilman Rogers. The councilman considers this a personal favor. We wouldn’t want hunters to tear up the countryside, would we?”
I sighed. “Terrific. He’s discovered a whole new way to waste my day.”
“It could be worse,” said Trisha. “We could have rain.”
“Yeah, at least it’s not raining,” I said. “Okay. Looks like I’ll get a walk through the woods.”
5
The dining hall’s roof had collapsed beneath the weight of a fallen walnut tree. Not a single pane of glass remained intact. Before time had ravaged it, Glenn had eaten there and sung songs in a small amphitheater not thirty feet away. He and Helen had loved that place, so he hated to see it fall into such disrepair. When he finished his work, he hoped to rebuild it so kids could play in it once more. It seemed like the least he could do.
Today, Helen wore sensible flats and a white cotton dress adorned with black polka dots. A pair of chopsticks from a Chinese place near their house held her hair in a bun at the back of her skull. As usual, her tasteful makeup brought out the brown sparkle of her eyes. Time had caught up to Glenn over the years, giving him aches and pains and gray hair, but somehow his sister looked the same as she had when she returned to his life twenty years ago. She had good genes, he supposed. That was how it should have been. She deserved the best in life.
“Do you remember this place?” she asked. “We were so young back then.”
“I remember,” said Glenn, nodding. “We were happy here.”
“I’m glad we found it again,” she said, looking toward the storm cellar’s door. “Do you hear them in there? They know we’re here. They think they’re being clever, hiding just inside the door.”
Glenn didn’t hear anyone, and he doubted Helen did, either, but she knew things. It was one of her gifts.
They had picked up Peter and Mary yesterday from Winfield, a tiny town in Lincoln County, Missouri. He hadn’t expected to pick them up so soon, but when the opportunity arose, he and Helen pounced.
With only fifteen hundred residents, Winfield was a dot on a highway map. Peter and Mary’s parents would miss them, but Glenn doubted the local police would worry about two missing high school kids—especially
when those two had been sleeping with each other for over a year. They’d probably think the kids had eloped and run off. He’d be fine.
Both Peter and Mary were high school seniors, and both ran track. Thin and wiry, neither alone would hurt him, but together they posed a threat. He had the means to protect himself, though.
“How long do you think they’ll hold out?” he asked.
Helen bit her lower lip and fluttered her eyelids before answering.
“Not long,” she said after thinking. “They don’t have stored fat to draw on. We should look for a new couple.”
“Already?” asked Glenn.
“Yes,” said Helen. “Don’t you feel it bubbling up inside you? We need this. It can’t wait. We need to go hunting again.”
Glenn only knew of two spots to store sinners, and both were currently occupied. Jude and Paige should succumb soon, though. That would create another vacancy. He and Helen could move another couple in soon enough.
“We’ll start the search,” he said, glancing at his sister. “For now, we need to focus on Peter and Mary. They’re new, so they’ll be strong still.”
“I’ll watch the stairs to keep them from running,” said Helen.
Glenn nodded. Muscles all over his body tingled with anticipation. He was excited, but he could barely focus.
His shadow had begun whispering to him.
She had been with him as long as his sister had, but she was darker and meaner than Helen. She whispered to him at night when he closed his eyes. Usually, she encouraged him, but other times, she screamed at him until his mind nearly broke. Every other time he had taken a couple, she quieted. She shouldn’t have been talking to him now. For now, he could shut her out, but his resolve wouldn’t last forever. He swallowed hard and silenced her with his will.
“They always fight the first time,” said Glenn, hoping his sister didn’t see the strain his shadow had put him under. “I wish they understood what I was trying to do. It’s for their own good.”
“They’ve never seen righteousness in their lives,” said Helen, shaking her head. “It’s not their fault they don’t understand. We’re their teachers, and we have to have firm hands.”
Glenn nodded and reached for the padlock with hands that trembled ever so slightly. The first couple he had brought to this cell—Tayla Walker and Matthew Bridges—had almost killed him. After they spent their first night inside, Glenn had gone to visit them and make sure they hadn’t hurt themselves trying to escape. When he pulled open the door, they had rushed toward him, screaming like banshees. He had had to shoot Matthew in the leg and nearly had to run Tayla down with his car to keep them from escaping.
That had taught him a lesson he couldn’t forget: The first visit was the most important. If he didn’t show the sinners how to behave immediately, they’d fight him for weeks and never learn what they needed to learn.
Glenn pulled off the padlock and tensed his back and shoulders. If Peter and Mary tried to push the door open, he’d stand on it and put the padlock back on. A week of darkness without food would calm them down.
But nobody screamed at him or rushed toward him. The kids had a plan. Every couple had a plan on the first visit.
Glenn reached into the bag at his feet for an Airsoft grenade he had purchased on the internet. SWAT teams used similar devices to simulate flash bangs during training scenarios. They served the purpose well. Before pulling the pin, he grabbed his cattle prod and took a deep breath.
“Do it, honey,” said Helen. “Make them hurt.”
He looked at his sister and nodded before ripping the ring from his grenade and tossing it into the basement.
“Shit,” came a voice from inside. It was Peter. The boy vaulted toward the cellar’s steel door, but Glenn had been ready for that. He stood at the top of the steps and kicked hard, hitting the young man in the chin. Peter fell backwards, and Glenn slammed the steel door shut. The two teenagers pounded on the metal with their fists.
Then the grenade exploded.
Outside, it sounded like a shotgun at ten yards. Inside it would have been deafening. The pounding stopped, so Glenn threw open the doors. Mary and Peter huddled in the center of the room.
Where he had installed a fence to separate the prisoners from him in his other cellar, this one was a simple open room. That changed his tactics.
He zapped Mary first with the cattle prod. She flopped to her belly and cried. Then Peter pushed up onto his knees. Glenn kicked him in the ribs and shocked him with the cattle prod until the young man’s muscles gave out. For a few moments, he convulsed on the ground like a fish out of water. It almost made Glenn smile.
“Enough, Glenn!” shouted Helen from the steps. “You’ll kill him if you don’t stop.”
Glenn chanced a glance at his sister before releasing the trigger.
“Sorry,” he said, drawing in a breath. “I don’t know what happened.”
Only that was a lie. He knew exactly what had happened. He had kept his finger on the trigger because his shadow wanted him to. She had been whispering to him at night and sharing with him dreams of beautiful violence. Part of him loved her. She gave him power. The other part of him feared her. Now, she spoke to him in her soft, sweet voice.
Ignore her. Helen means well, but she doesn’t understand you. Give in to your feelings.
That voice made him want to hold the prod against Mary’s neck until she flopped on the ground like her boyfriend. He wanted to hear Peter’s anguished cries as his blood mixed with his tears. He wanted to give in, just as his shadow told him to.
But he couldn’t yet. It was too early. His sister wouldn’t approve, and his captives wouldn’t learn their lesson.
“Ask Mary your questions,” said Helen. “Make her talk.”
Glenn did as his sister asked and stepped toward the girl. Peter reached for his leg, but Glenn stamped on his hand and then shocked him with the cattle prod. The boy gasped and scampered back, holding his broken fingers. Mary sat in a puddle of her own piss and cried. He knelt in front of her and cupped her cheek.
“Has he hurt you?”
She gave him a questioning look. Glenn smiled.
“Peter,” said Glenn, nodding and encouraging her to speak. “Has he hurt you yet?”
Mary’s bottom lip trembled, and she shook her head. “I want to go home.”
“You are home,” he whispered. “You’re safe here. I won’t hurt you. If you tell me what he’s done, I’ll protect you.”
Big tears trickled down her cheeks.
“I don’t understand.”
“It’s okay,” he said. “I was your age once. You can trust me. Did Peter rape you?”
“No,” she said, shaking her head, a confused expression on her face. “He loves me.”
Glenn nodded and sighed. “He will. It’s in his nature. You’ll see.”
He started to leave when a hand grasped his ankle and squeezed tight. It was Peter. The young man snarled and pulled so hard he almost knocked Glenn from his feet. Glenn whipped the cattle prod around, but Peter rose to his feet and charged before he brought the weapon to bear. The boy’s shoulder hit him in the gut and lifted him from the ground. Glenn’s breath rushed out of him as his back slammed into the ground. The cattle prod clattered to the concrete.
“Get up!” shouted Helen. “Get up!”
Glenn’s lungs wouldn’t work. He couldn’t breathe or think.
Let me help you. Please.
Glenn opened his mind and relaxed, allowing his shadow to guide his hand. With a gasp, his lungs inflated once more. Peter lay on top of him, scrambling for Glenn’s throat. If the kid had been a trained fighter, he would have reared back and punched Glenn in the face. Peter was a boy, though. He didn’t know what he was doing.
Glenn did.
The older man wrapped an arm around his captive’s neck, enclosing it. He then clasped his hands tight beneath Peter’s throat, creating a knot with the knife of his forearm over one carotid artery and his
bicep pressing against the other. In a smooth motion, Glenn wrapped his legs around Peter’s waist and arched his back, cutting off the supply of blood to the young man’s brain.
He counted to thirty before Peter stopped moving. The kid’s heart still beat, but he had passed out. Glenn rolled him off before looking for Mary. She had disappeared.
“Where is she?” he called, his voice a snarl that surprised even him.
“Upstairs,” said Helen. “I couldn’t stop her.”
He sprinted up the steps. Mary’s dirty-blonde hair fluttered in the wind as she ran toward the car Glenn had driven that day. She was fast and young, but she had nowhere to go. She clawed at the handle of the sedan, but he held the electronic key fob in his pocket. He locked the door before she could open it. Her entire body trembled, and she fell to her knees.
“Please, mister,” she said. “I won’t tell anybody what happened. Let me go. Please.”
He slapped her across the face. She fell against the car crying, so he grabbed a fistful of her hair and yanked her toward the storm cellar.
“You shouldn’t have run,” he said.
“I’m sorry,” she said, stumbling behind him. He jerked hard, breaking some of her roots. When they reached the cellar, he pushed her down the steps. Peter had rolled over onto his back. His eyes were open, and he struggled to sit up.
“I tried to be nice,” said Glenn. “You didn’t let me.”
Mary curled into a ball and cried, while Peter stared with black hate-filled eyes.
Punish them. Teach them. It’s the only way.
His shadow wasn’t loud, but her power flowed through him.
“Leave them alone, honey,” said Helen. “Lock them up and walk away.”
“They shouldn’t have run,” he snarled. Helen hurried to stand between him and the kids.
“Calm down,” she said. “You’re too worked up.”