by Nolon King
The tears stopped, and Howie found that familiar peace.
But he felt something else inside it. A kinship with something he could only sense but not yet see.
That would come years later with the first of Mister K’s messages.
Chapter 12 - Jasper Parish
It had been four days since Jasper had stopped taking his pills, but he had yet to see Jordyn or have any visions.
Last night had been the toughest. Jurkovicz was on duty instead of Hernandez. And Jurko was even more of a ballbuster. Jasper played it docile — so sleepy, the guard didn’t bother checking to see if he’d swallowed.
But now he was running out of time and pacing his pod like a crazy man.
It was almost lights out, and he’d yet to see anything. Hernandez would demand proof of Jasper’s abilities if he was on duty tonight. Jurko, or someone else, might force the pills on him. It would take days for the effects to wear off.
His “symptoms” usually returned relatively soon. He’d see Jordyn or have a vision before the week was half over. More often, his daughter would return with a vision of her own. She was far stronger, especially in death, than Jasper had ever been.
Odd she’d not manifested psychic visions until after her passing. She’d had a few premonitions during her life, but not like now.
“Don’t you think it’s telling that she only has strong abilities after she’s gone?” The shrink had asked Jasper. “That maybe these visions are just you manifesting her?”
But how could the doctors understand his situation? They were forced to work within the parameters of fact, of what was easily accepted or understandable. They were like cops in that way, working with the most likely explanation of events. If the evidence pointed toward Suspect A, it was usually Suspect A. The most obvious answer was most often the only answer.
Except now.
Maybe Jasper wasn’t seeing Jordyn or Carissa because they didn’t want to see him. Jordyn blamed him for what happened to Spider and the others and had still never really forgiven him for what he’d done to Calum and Brianna. Carissa never approved of what he was doing, and he’d disappointed her by bringing their daughter into his need for revenge.
Their absence might be more punishment.
Please. If you’re here, talk to me.
This is too much.
Still no answer.
I thought I could do this, but … I can’t.
Tears bubbled under the surface, but Jasper held them back, refusing to let self-pity best him. He had to keep his mind open to the chance that maybe the meds had yet to wear off.
Hard to tell in the hole.
Jasper had been medicated ever since his sentence began. But the hole had a way of cutting through the numbness, cranking his anxiety regardless of the dulling chemicals inside him.
And now, he was moments from breaking.
Were the meds wearing off, or was Jasper losing his shit?
They’d increase his doses if he turned violent, make him even more of a vegetable, thereby making it even less likely he’d ever Jordyn or Carissa again.
He closed his eyes, sprawled in the bed, and tried to meditate himself into a better place.
Sometimes visions came when he managed to empty his mind of thoughts. But in a place like this, the images were too muddy. He couldn’t clear them because they kept returning to fear:
What if I can’t convince Hernandez?
What if I’m forced to stay on the meds forever?
What if I deserve this punishment? Or something even worse?
Part of Jasper wished Kozack had killed him. He would no longer suffer, and Kozack could have justice for his son.
No, no, no …
I can’t give in to that.
Have to clear my mind.
Think of nothing.
Let go of every thought. Imagine them leaving me, floating away with each rising and falling breath.
Jasper imagined his darkest thoughts and ugliest fears coalescing into a singular black cloud, blooming from his crown then spreading outward.
Eyes still closed, he pictured that cloud dissipating above him and joining the ether.
That’s it.
Jordyn?
He resisted the urge to open his eyes. She would vanish if he did — assuming she was really there, that it wasn’t just wishful thinking.
He continued, clearing the thoughts of Jordyn as he had the others, picturing them floating away. He was alone, waiting without thinking about his waiting. Or trying not to.
A flash of movement.
A teenage boy, dark hair and red T-shirt, running. People behind him, chasing.
The door buzzed and unlocked.
Whatever Jasper saw, or thought he had, disappeared in a blink and left only raw terror behind. He had nothing and prayed it wasn’t Hernandez’s turn in the rotation.
The door opened.
Jasper sat up as Hernandez stepped holding the cup of pills in his gloved hand.
“Well?” Hernandez asked.
I should lie.
Tell him that Jurko checked last night and reset my abilities. I need more time.
Hernandez said he wasn’t going to let anyone else in on it, but maybe that was a lie. Or a test. What if he asked Jurko not to check?
“I … I need more time.”
“Enough bullshit, Parish. Open up and say ah.”
“Please,” Jasper begged.
His face went red and his eyebrows furrowed as he grabbed Jasper’s jaw with one hand, ready to force the pills down his throat with the other.
Jasper reached up, grabbed Hernandez by the forearm on instinct, and glimpsed a fragment of a vision.
A boy in red, running. Kids chasing him and calling out, “You’re a pussy, Jamie!”
One of the boys pulled out a knife.
Hernandez shoved Jasper backward, dropped the pills, and made a move toward his baton. The first blow hit Jasper hard in the ribs before he even had a chance to raise his hands, still too shocked to process what was happening fast enough to defend himself.
A second strike to his back. Jasper curled himself into a ball and cried out, “Jamie! Jamie!”
Hernandez let up, backing away. “The fuck you just say?”
Jasper eyed the man, saw his confusion and anger-soaked expression. Noted his fist clutching the baton, waiting for an excuse to beat the hell out of him.
“I saw a young teenage boy. Dark hair, red shirt, running from some kids. They were calling him a pussy. Someone pulled a knife.”
Hernandez stared at Jasper, the color gone from his face, baton shaking in his hand.
“Is he your son?”
Hernandez shook his head, then the glare returned to his red eyes and matching face. “Someone put you up to this?”
He should have called for back-up already. Would soon unless Jasper kept him talking. Hernandez was shaken, so Jasper was close to something. He needed something to prompt another vision.
“I saw it when I touched your arm,” Jasper said. “Who is it?”
“Why don’t you tell me?”
“I only heard them call him Jamie.”
Hernandez stared at Jasper, then saw his pills on the ground. “Pick those up and take them.”
“Please, I know I saw something — something important to you. Who is he?”
“Fuck you, Parish. Take your meds. I’m not buying it.”
Jasper crawled to the ground, pain splintering his ribs and back, then slowly gathered the pills in his hand. “Give me more time. Maybe if I touch your—”
“Take the pills!” Hernandez barked, baton raised, poised for another strike.
Jasper was nearing his normal. Being this close only to fumble in the final yards felt like the worst defeat of his life. He’d rather die.
“Please. Let me help you.”
Hernandez brought the baton down.
But Jasper grabbed it.
The guard moved to counter, but the prisoner was faster, sw
eeping his legs out from under him. Then Jasper was on top, punching him in the nose, hearing it crack beneath the impact.
His baton fell to the ground. Hernandez gasped and reached for his nose, vision likely blurred by the tears.
Jasper grabbed the weapon and held it over the guard, who looked up at him, angry and terrified, too disoriented to do anything more than clutch at his bloody nose.
“I don’t want to hurt you. Just give me a minute.”
“Fuck you,” he grunted, reaching for his radio.
Jasper wrapped him hard on the knuckles. “Stop!”
Hernandez yanked back his hand with an incoherent shout.
“Let me help you. If I can’t, then you can beat the hell out of me.”
“Oh, you better believe I will.”
“Put your arm out,” Jasper ordered.
Hernandez begrudgingly did so.
Jasper touched his arm again, and saw another flash.
The boy on the ground as two others held him down.
“No, please,” he cried as an angry-looking crewcut blond with a scar under his right eye glared down at him. The images were blurry. The boys all appeared to be around eleven or twelve, except the blond. He was older than the other kids by at least a few years.
One of the kids, a pudgy one with greasy brown hair, scowled and said, “Do it, Dom. Do it!”
The blond stabbed him, repeatedly, as the kid cried out.
Then the boys all left him alone to die in a junkyard, sobbing for his mommy.
Jasper let go of his arm.
“They stabbed the boy. Who was he to you?”
Hernandez shook his head. “I don’t know who told you what. Maybe your lawyer hired some PI to look into me, but I ain’t fallin’ for it.”
“Do you know who killed him?”
Hernandez stared at Jasper, his eyes afraid but hopeful. Whoever this kid was to him, the guard wanted to believe Jasper had answers.
“It was his last case,” Jordyn said, suddenly standing beside him. Jasper wanted to cry and to hug her, but Hernandez would see him as insane.
Still, tears stung at his eyes. He was no longer alone. His little girl had returned.
“It’s the case that broke him,” Jordyn said. “Made him become a CO.”
“It was your last case. An unsolved crime, wasn’t it?”
Hernandez clutched his bloody nose in silence. Jasper ripped off a piece of his shirt and handed it to the man as a makeshift rag.
Hernandez reluctantly took it.
“I’ll tell you who killed him, but you have to let this thing go. And no more meds.”
“How can you know?” Hernandez stared at Jasper. “Did you kill him?”
He shook his head. “I’d never kill a kid.”
Hernandez looked down at the bloody rag, turning it over in his hand before putting it back against his nose.
“Do we have an agreement?” Japer asked.
Hernandez nodded. “You tell me who did it, and it checks out, then yes. But … if you’re wrong, I won’t put you back here. I’ll throw you in genpop, tell them you’re a cop, and let the Aryans and everyone else fight over who gets to skull-fuck you first.”
“The name Dom ring a bell?”
Jasper could tell from Hernandez’s face that it did.
Chapter 13 - Mallory Black
Mal went to work early Monday morning, checking in to see what forensics had found at the scene. She saw nothing new, then went to computer crimes and asked Aanya to check on the phone that had been left for her, hoping to trace its purchase.
A burner bought at a gas station in Jacksonville. Aanya would call the carrier and trace the number’s activity, but Mal doubted they’d find anything.
She drove to Jacksonville and waited half an hour for the store manager to find the receipt. The phone was bought with cash, more than two months ago, meaning the unsub had probably been planning this crime for a while. Without a credit card number to trace, Mal asked if the manager could show her security footage from the time of the purchase, knowing what he’d say. And sure enough, the footage was recorded over every week.
She called the hospital next but there was no news on McKenna Shaw coming out of her coma yet.
Just after two o’clock, she got a call from Mike — they were running down a list of people with white vans in the neighborhood, and one of the men took off when they went to question him. He lived three blocks from the girls and, more importantly, went to their church.
They had him in the box and had begun to question him when they decided it would be better to ice the guy. Now they were stalling. Mike called Mal, even though she’d been reduced to grunt work by Barry, because he wanted her in the room. It was good to be needed, especially by her partner, and she felt guilty for questioning his loyalty.
Mal raced back to Creek County Sheriff’s Office, eager for a crack at the suspect.
When she arrived, Skippy and Mike were sitting adjacent to the interview room looking through the two-way mirror at the suspect, a rail-thin dirty-blond in his mid-thirties. A long face with bulging eyes and a big black-and-blue bruise blooming beneath the left one. He kept bouncing his leg, fidgety as fuck, as he grazed the room with his eyes like an addict dying for a fix.
Takes one to know one.
“Name is Terry Watkins,” Mike told her. “He’s a mechanic at Vlad’s Custom Imports, drives a van similar to our unsub. And, get this — six months ago, a neighbor girl, age seven, claims he was standing in his window masturbating when she and her friend walked by. Case was dropped because the kid and her parents got flakey about the details. Mom said it was a big understanding, but the deputy on duty wasn’t buying it. You ask me, dude looks shifty as hell. So, we went to have a little talk, asked him where he was when the girls were attacked. Terry excuses himself to use the bathroom then high-tails it out the back door on foot. Skippy caught him. Might have clocked him in the eye.”
“Whoops.” Skippy smiled.
“So, where we at?” Mal asked her partner.
“Forensics has his van, nothing to report yet. And we’ve been letting him sit and stew before going back in. Thought it might be good to bring you in halfway through, see how he reacts.”
Mal nodded as the guys entered the interview room.
Mike sat across the table from Terry and dropped a Manilla folder between them. Terry glanced at it, several times, but didn’t ask what was in it.
“So, how are you feeling?” Mike asked.
“Um, okay.” He flinched as Skippy stepped into the corner of his peripheral vision, turned, then paced behind Terry’s back in an effort to unnerve him.
The suspect shifted in his seat.
“So, before we get back to it, my apologies for taking so long,” Mike said. “We’re talking to a lot of folks right now, and there are only a few of us on duty. You know how it is.”
“I told you everything. I know the girls from church, but … ain’t ever said more than ‘hi’ to ’em.”
“Yeah, I’m sorry. We’ve just got to dot our I’s and cross our T’s, you know how it is.”
Terry nodded and shifted in his chair again, still not meeting Mike’s gaze.
“Can I get you something before we get back to it? A water, soda, some coffee?”
“Yeah,” Terry said. “A Coke.”
“Sure thing.” Mike stood and left the room.
Then he sat beside Mal in the adjacent room. The two of them watched Skippy work, still pacing behind the suspect.
Terry did his best not to look back or show his fear, but whenever Skippy made any noise — an extra loud step, smacking at the keys in his pocket, or simply clearing his throat — Terry visibly started. He was nervous for sure, but his anxiousness didn’t necessarily have anything to do with the girls.
Skippy finally circled around to where Terry could see him.
“How rough did you all get with him?” Mal asked.
“Skippy just touched him up for the running. N
othing too bad.”
Mike was by-the-book. He didn’t like when a colleague lost control, especially Mal. So she trusted him when he said Skippy hadn’t done much.
“Dude is spooked like he’s expecting a beatdown,” Mal said.
“Yeah, he’s hiding something.”
“Get a warrant for the house yet?”
“Hawthorne and Robbins are over there now.”
Mal nodded.
Skippy walked the table in long, lazy circles.
The suspect laid his head down and closed his eyes. It looked like he might be sobbing.
Skippy stopped and slammed his palms on the table.
Terry jumped, eyes wide in terror, as he looked at the detective, then around the room as if he expected to see another five other cops storming in to kick his ass.
“Why’d you run, man?” Skippy shouted.
“I told you, I don’t know.”
“Bullshit! Innocent people don’t run. You know who runs, Terry? Guilty people, that’s who. You know how many times an innocent person has taken off in all my time on the force?”
Terry just stared at the table, hair hanging in his eyes.
“I asked you a question. How many times do you think an innocent person has run, Terry?”
“I dunno.”
“Wrong answer.” Skippy slammed his palms on the table again.
Terry jumped in his seat.
Inches from his nose, glaring as he bellowed, “None, Terry! Innocent people never run!”
Skippy was dangerously close to Terry, who could easily bite his cheek if he wanted to. But Skippy was clearly feeling invulnerable in the face of his cowering suspect. Mal would advise more caution. Terry looked like a loser dirtbag Life had spent decades fucking hard in the ass without any lube, but that didn’t make him less of a threat.
“What’s wrong, man? You look scared.” Skippy took a seat across from Terry. “You thinking about what our guys are gonna find back at your place?”
Terry shook his head. “I didn’t do anything, man. I told you.”
“What are they gonna find? Got some kiddy porn stashed away? Maybe some pics of little children from the park or something?”
“I’m not a fucking pedophile.” His brow furrowed.