Darling

by K. Ancrum

  Wendy thought about her mom.

  Her mom, clenching the bar tightly on the train, describing this man–describing Peter—in fits and starts, haunted by a ghost that turned out to still be alive. Moving away to escape the memory, waiting until she felt safe, then inadvertently placing her family back into the path of the same predator that had haunted her nights. Her mom. Who would have to learn that Wendy had spent a night the same way she had, with the same predator, when she came to pick Wendy up from the police station.

  The necklace Peter made her hours ago suddenly scraped against her skin like rope. Wendy pulled it off and threw it hard across the room.

  Detective Hook watched the acorn and string bounce off the concrete wall and land on the floor, and wisely chose to say nothing. He waited patiently until Wendy was able to pull herself together and sit up again. Then he got up and poured Wendy a glass of water from the water cooler and placed it in front of her, along with a box of tissues. Wendy pushed the tissues away but grabbed the water, gulping it down gratefully.

  “Who else knows?” Wendy choked out. “Do the others—”

  “They know. They learned about a month ago. Genevieve punched me in the face when I told her, so you’re handling this better than she did.”

  “Genevieve?” Wendy asked numbly.

  Detective Hook rolled his eyes. “She likes to be called Tinkerbelle, I think.”

  Wendy could unpack that later. “They let me be close to him when … they let him touch me … they let…”

  Detective Hook thumbed through Peter’s folder and took out a few more pictures, but this time he held them in a stack instead of handing them over. “They know, but it’s not their fault that you didn’t know. They’re all contractually restricted from sharing that information with anyone outside of people working on the case. Also, they spent the majority of their time with him not knowing, either, much longer than you. Peter is very charismatic and convincing; it’s not hard for him to trick a group of teenagers. But the thing is that it only works if they’re teenagers. He can’t trick people who are much older than you are right now. Whether it’s because we’re old enough to recognize another adult when we see one, or because the things that make him charismatic stop working after a while, we don’t know. But we know that he knows it, too, and that he doesn’t allow this situation to happen if he can manage it by keeping the age of people around him low enough for it to keep working. How long have you been with the others? It couldn’t have been long … a week, maybe?”

  “Seven hours,” Wendy said, her chest as hollow as a gourd.

  Detective Hook grimaced apologetically. “Peter works predictably. He makes friends with vulnerable children, figures out what they need most in the world, and then gives it to them. Food, a home, a brother, a father, a friend. He sticks by them for a couple of years, roughly until they turn eighteen, then he gives them a choice: to leave the city permanently or … to leave the city permanently.”

  Detective Hook set down the photographs he was holding and fanned them out so Wendy could see them all at once. They were candids of street kids, all roughly seventeen or eighteen, ranging from blurry shots of grunge-kids in band T-shirts, all the way up to crisper digital pictures that couldn’t have been from more than five years ago. Wendy didn’t recognize any of the boys she’d already met, and the names at the bottom of the images weren’t any that had been mentioned tonight, either.

  “These are his victims. We originally thought disappear- ances correlated with convenience as a motive, but thanks to Trevor, or well … ‘Curly’—” Detective Hook took a moment to do air quotes disrespectfully, “—we now know that it actually corresponds with their ages. He rarely takes in two older kids around the same age. Brian—‘Nibs’—would have been next to go. His eighteenth birthday is in four months.”

  “Peter…,” Wendy said helplessly.

  “Murders his foster children when they get old enough to figure out what he is, or properly challenge his authority,” Detective Hook finished. “The first one happened in 2002, which is why we have the mug shot of your mother, Mary Moira, now Mary Darling, one of the original witnesses. We don’t think he had a track record from before that incident, but it definitely escalated after that point.”

  Wendy stared at the images silently.

  “Trevor found out a lot earlier than most of Peter’s victims do. He witnessed something and passed the information on to Brian. They sat on it for a while before coming down to the precinct, but I’m sure those boys were terrified. I’d already been picking at a different cold case for fifteen years when they dropped this into my lap. A lot of kids go missing without any connection to a serial killer, so it’s hard to make a case for these victims individually. You guys get upset, run away, things like that. And even if you all get murdered, who’s to say it was the same guy? But I knew I had something with this one.”

  Wendy looked at Detective Hook as he bragged about catching on to Peter instead of being concerned about the lost and missing children, and learned to hate him.

  “I’d seen Peter with my own two eyes, once when he was seventeen and again when he was probably in his mid-twenties, looking like barely a week had passed. He had the nerve to smile at me and wave, just like he did tonight, that son of a bitch.” He paused as if to wait for Wendy to say something, but she just stared at him blankly.

  He straightened his collar and leaned close to her. “Look, kid. I know this has been a rough seven hours for you, but it’s been a rough fifteen years for me. Do you know what it’s like to know someone’s out there killing boys? To have everyone around you keep ignoring your warnings until he straight up smashes off your hand? I know this whole thing is ‘a lot for you,’ and I respect that, believe me I do, but, sweetie: You’re not actually the victim here.

  “We’ve been trying to bust open this case and bring him home to roost for months now.” He shoved the pictures of the dead boys into their folder, then opened up another. “Curly and his friends are the first lead into this group that we’ve ever had. Peter was completely untouchable for fifteen years, then out of nowhere he starts acting out, getting sloppy. Maybe he could see the difference between his families that he creates and a real solid group of good kids, and it made him lose it a bit. I don’t really know; I’ll send you a copy when we write the book on this one. But something shifted, and all of a sudden it was easier.

  “Those kids down there are putting themselves on the line every day with that murderous son of a bitch, because they get it. They know what needs to be done to make this stop, and they’re the only ones who can do it.”

  He pushed the folder over to Wendy. It was a stack of printouts of digital records. She scanned them quickly. Tinkerbelle was only sixteen years old. Ominotago was seventeen, and her parents had signed for her permission to help the investigation. Fyodor’s file had notes in it about expediting his citizenship status in exchange for participation. Minsu’s had a request that he be protected from media investigation in both a positive and negative circumstance; his focus was mostly on discretion. Both of their cooperation agreements were unsigned by their parents—but they were also both eighteen. Curly and Nibs, sixteen and seventeen respectively, had both recently filed for emancipated minor status—probably to avoid the foster system after Peter’s eventual capture. Charles had paid in advance to have his record scrubbed in the likely event that he would be arrested in conjunction with this, and had requested witness protection if they were unable to catch Peter.

  She hadn’t known him for long, but it was so like Charles to take those precautions that Wendy felt a spark of amusement. After she’d finished reading, Wendy gathered the printouts, stacked them, and slipped them back inside the folder. “If the others are directly involved in Peter’s capture, why did they get arrested earlier this evening?” she asked calmly.

  Detective Hook rubbed his mustache, clearly trying to decide whether he wanted to share this information with Wendy. “Peter moves his home ab
out twice a year. It’s difficult to keep track of his base, and Trevor hadn’t been able to come back to the precinct since before their move, so we had to use our own intel for locating Peter’s home. We had APBs out for unaccompanied male youths in the area, and at least two of the boys fit the basic description. They were cuffed and detained while the officers checked their IDs against police records. If Peter hadn’t disrupted that process, their identities would have been confirmed, and they would have been released. I had direct contact with Ominotago, and was monitoring their location via her, but officers can’t use burner numbers to contact the station. And the phone I provided her is a burner. They wouldn’t be able to use it as a reference to confirm her identity and wouldn’t be able to use her association with me as protection. They would have to look up police records and Ominotago doesn’t have a record. She’s clean.”

  “You scared Minsu half to death!” Wendy spat.

  “And the Chicago Police Department will offer an apology for that,” Detective Hook said, leaning back in his chair. “After we capture the perpetrator.”

  “Did you call my parents yet?” Wendy asked.

  Detective Hook looked Wendy up and down in a very “cop” way, then folded his burly arms on the desk. “I received a hysterical call from a girl named Eleanor Rodgers earlier this evening concerning you and—once I figured out who you were and just how special you are—I made the executive decision not to call your parents. Wendy Darling, I have a proposition for you.”

  He opened another folder, plucked a single piece of paper out, and held it up in his prosthetic. “We think that Peter is in a vulnerable state. He’s beginning to behave erratically after years of discipline, and that disorganization has opened up a few weaknesses. For fifteen years he never approached women, and he’s since had contact with two: Genevieve and Ominotago. He doesn’t usually take in very young children, but we’ve heard that he has a seven-year-old boy. We think he used to be able to blend, psychologically, with his victims and relate directly to their shared experience. However, we think that he may be outgrowing his MO and starting to search for a more stabilizing environment that he can control.”

  “What does that mean?” Wendy asked dubiously.

  Detective Hook grimaced before laying the sheet of paper down in front of her. “We think he’s looking for a partner. Or something like that. Peter has been able to play brother to his victims successfully for almost twenty years, from the age of seventeen to the age of thirty-six. But the man is facing down forty; he’s probably not going to be able to pretend to be a teenager for much longer. We think he’s begun looking for a mother for them. Instead of a found family, he wants to create … a real family.” Detective Hook shrugged. “So to speak.”

  Wendy squeezed her thighs hard in both hands as she tried, successfully, to keep from heaving.

  Detective Hook waited for her to recover before continuing. “We do not think he’s interested in actual romantic relationships with any of these women. It’s more like Peter is looking for an accomplice to support his illusory family unit. Obviously Ominotago and Tinkerbelle were both unsuited for that role once they figured out his motives, and quickly broke Peter of the illusion that they would be interested in anything other than a normal relationship with a normal person—thank God.” Detective Hook muttered that last part half to himself.

  “What do you want from me?” Wendy asked.

  “I want you to give him what he wants,” Detective Hook said, quietly tapping the agreement he’d placed in front of her. “You’re a descendant of a witness to his first victim. A killer’s only anniversary. You’d be more than he’d be able to resist, if he knew who you really were. We need a full confession, and we think that you’ll be able to get it out of him. We ran four different stings tonight, and he’s managed to slip out of every one of them. Running is Peter’s greatest strength, but he’s a narcissist and he’ll incriminate himself if given the slightest chance to brag about his accomplishments. He hasn’t had enough time to regroup and process the events of the night, and he’s on edge and low on resources; if we take one more shot tonight, he might be weak enough to buckle. Now, will you help us close the pages on this?”

  Wendy pushed herself away from the table and stood up. This was her decision, but first, she had something to do. Tinkerbelle and Ominotago had been given this choice and took it. The rest of the boys had just made it their business to do what was right for justice’s sake. Wendy wasn’t any less brave than they were, and she had much less to lose. She cared about people, even if Detective Hook didn’t seem to. She had burned through her reserves of terror for the night and now felt only disgust and anger. Wendy knew she could use that pain for something good.

  “I need twenty minutes to talk to the group,” she said.

  Detective Hook looked furious for a second, but managed to suppress it. “You have ten.” He barked at the door. “WILSON!”

  The officer who had brought Wendy to this room immediately unlocked the door.

  “Bring her back in ten minutes,” Hook said, waving his hand in dismissal.

  Wendy walked toward the doorway on shaking legs.

  “Stop.”

  She paused.

  “If he gets away tonight … it’s on you,” Detective Hook said, breathing hard with anger.

  Wendy didn’t turn to face him. “No. It’s not,” she said firmly. “I’m just a kid, asshole. And you should have called my parents.”

  CHAPTER 15

  Everyone looked up when the officer opened the door. Ominotago and Tinkerbelle had drifted to Fyodor’s side. Fyodor was white as a ghost from stress. Charles had managed to get his cuffed hands in front of him like Ominotago and had an arm around Minsu’s shoulders. Nibs and Curly were sitting on the floor between Fyodor and Minsu, Curly’s chin on Nibs’s shoulder. Curly looked like he’d been caught whispering in his brother’s ear.

  Wendy stared at Tinkerbelle for a long moment, ages after the door had closed behind her. “You told me to stay home.”

  Tinkerbelle’s eyes filled with tears, and she hid her face in the curve of Ominotago’s neck. Wendy crossed the room in three long strides and swept Tinkerbelle into a tight hug.

  “I’m sorry!” Tinkerbelle cried, muffled into Wendy’s hair.

  “No,” Wendy said resolutely. “Thank you for trying.”

  “Did you sign the NDA?” Ominotago asked gently.

  “Yes. We have ten minutes before I have to tell Detective Hook whether I’m going to join you all or not.”

  “Okay, you need answers,” Ominotago said seriously. “And you need them fast.” She squeezed Wendy’s shoulder with her cuffed hand. Then she scooted over to create room on the couch for Wendy to sit between Tinkerbelle and Fyodor. Charles and Minsu joined the group, sitting on the floor in front of the others and completing the circle.

  Ominotago nudged Tinkerbelle. “You go first.”

  Tinkerbelle took a moment to get her breath under control and began. “Peter wasn’t looking for you specifically; it was a coincidence. The whole thing with his jacket threw the timing of the entire night off. So I was angry when we met because you were already ruining things before you knew it. We were supposed to get to the train station twenty minutes earlier, and the cops would have been able to grab Peter on the train platform, where there are limited places to run. They probably panicked once we didn’t arrive when they expected, so they started trying to make barricades, but it was too late. Peter watches where we go, so Curly, Slightly, Nibs, and me can’t ever meet with the police in person. He also pays our cell phone bills so he has access to our call and text records, so we can’t talk to them that way, either. We were relying on Ominotago as direct contact for timing, and we missed our connection point. I’d been hoping that you’d get scared off by my story, but you stayed, anyway. You could have gotten away, back—”

  “I know, Tinkerbelle, it’s okay.” Wendy squeezed Tinkerbelle’s hand.

  “The next opportunity was at
the Mermaid’s Lagoon, but by that time, Peter probably knew something was up. The cops chase him every several months or so, but they only tend to do one attack at a time, not many in a single night, so he probably thought he was in the clear—”

  Curly interrupted Tinkerbelle. “Peter has been paying the Crocodile off to create interference for as long as I’ve known him.” He nudged Nibs, and Nibs agreed. “The Crocodile takes in a decent chunk of money to keep the police off our backs and texts Peter about where the police will be so Peter can avoid them,” he said. “However, if the Crocodile turns Peter in, he’ll get a lump sum reward, so he’s not 100 percent trustworthy. He’s just holding out to see how much he can get off Peter in the long run before bringing him in.”

  Curly frowned, then the corners of his mouth started wavering as he forced himself not to cry. “They met that night with me and Slightly and James at the train party, when Hook almost caught us. The Crocodile agreed that he would protect us all, so long as Peter paid him on time. Not that it did James any good. The Crocodile never said he’d protect us from Peter,” Curly finished bitterly, wiping his eyes on the shoulder of Nibs’s jacket.

  Wendy felt a frisson of terror as she reassessed the events of the night. “So Peter really … James … I’d hoped that…”

  “You didn’t see James again, did you? Did anyone? Peter probably pushed James off the train,” Fyodor said. He closed his eyes, swaying in a way that made Wendy genuinely concerned about his health. “Is he alive?” He continued, “Perhaps. But also, perhaps not.”

  “Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh God. Oh my God,” Wendy mumbled, horrified.

  “We don’t have time for you to process this,” Ominotago said firmly. “You probably only have six more minutes before the cops come back. Let’s keep this going. My family knows about Peter and knew the cops were coming to raid the party. The decor was less elaborate, and we had fewer places for someone to hide so that finding Peter in the building might be easier. But he slipped out of there somehow. What else?”