by A B Whelan
“Blake Sullivan. Born September 29, 1985, making him thirty-four years old. Right now, we only have an old mug shot, but we’re working on getting something more current. The search of Meredith’s apartment turned up a receipt from May 10, from a place called the Stag Bar in Newport Beach. The date coincides with Portia’s and the parents’ statement. We’ve already asked Meredith’s friends to verify the name of the bar as the place where the alteration took place. Lyric said she wasn’t there when it happened, but she’d often go to the Stag Bar with Meredith and some other girls to hook up with rich guys, insisting the men weren’t sugar daddies, that they were looking for, quote, “true love” at the popular beach town bar. The place is about a twenty-minute drive from San Marcos. Brown and I are heading there right now to review the security videos. I’ll text you the mugshot of Sullivan to keep you in the loop.”
The fork falls from my hand and lands in the salad. “No need to send me the picture, Anaya. I know what Blake Sullivan looks like. I mean, I know what he looked like eight years ago.”
“What? How? Did Brestler already fill you in?”
“No … It’s … I’m searching for Blake Sullivan myself: he’s my twin brother.”
“What?! Are you serious? That was …unexpected. You can’t …I-I had no idea,” Anaya stutters, understandably struggling to find the right words.
“It’s his spit on a jacket, right? It doesn’t necessarily mean that Blake is the Piggyback Serial Killer.”
“No, it doesn’t, but you’re on the team, Vicky. You read the behavioral profile on the serial killer. You were the one who discovered the patterns. Sullivan fits the bill.”
“You don’t know that with certainty. My brother disappeared nearly a decade ago! Nobody’s heard or seen him since then. Not a parking ticket. No rental contracts. No home purchases. Nothing. He never even renewed his driver's license. For all we know, he’s dead.”
A long pause. I listen to my racing heart filling the silence.
Anaya speaks first. “You said you had a lead on your brother; what did you mean by that?”
I ponder my partner’s question for a moment. Withholding information from the FBI could easily lead to termination of my employment, or worse, a felony charge. But by giving up my brother, I’d be subjecting him to endless scrutiny and investigations. I believe in our system, but it’s far from perfect. Many people have suffered and will continue to suffer from injustice. I couldn’t bear being responsible for my brother being dragged through the mud for something he may not have done, especially after what the system already put him through.
“Uhm, yeah … I have an address in Lake Elsinore, but my source isn’t exactly reliable. I’m not sure if it’s usable intel, so I’m heading there now to see if it checks out.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea, Vicky. Not only because he could be your long-lost brother, which makes him family and per protocol, you should be off the investigation, but because he may be a brutal serial killer. Your life may be in danger. I need you to stand down and wait for Brestler and me … I need you to text me the address.”
Anaya’s cold and authoritative demeanor slices through me. Then I remember that Detective Brown from the San Diego Sherriff’s office is with her in the car, which would explain her hostile behavior toward me. I calm myself down, but I can’t help feeling protective of my brother.
“Come on, Anaya! We found Blake’s DNA on a jacket from a bar quarrel that happened months ago. It doesn’t prove he’s our killer.”
“Yesterday, you were convinced that the two events were connected. You asked me to put a rush on the DNA analysis. Didn’t you? That’s why I’m now ordering you to stand down. I understand your position, and before we jump to any conclusion, I’ll get the video footage from the bar. We’ll be able to verify if Blake Sullivan was the one who attacked Meredith, then I’ll come down to Lake Elsinore. Don’t forget to text me the address. Understood?”
“Will do. Thank you, Anaya. I’ll see you in a few hours.”
“Vicky!” she calls out to me, and I hold the phone away from my ear for a moment before bringing myself to listen to her warning, which I know is coming. “Do not, I repeat, do not contact or engage Sullivan without me, am I clear?” We are no longer friends. She is my superior officer. She is my boss and the one who gives the orders.
“Understood,” I agree, placing the salad bowl on the floor by the passenger seat and starting the car.
There is no way I’m going to let the police or FBI swoop down on my brother without concrete proof that he had something to do with Meredith’s murder. I want to catch the killer as much as the next guy, but my brother has already suffered enough. I won’t let him be made the scapegoat for the Bureau so it can look good in front of the media.
I enter Blake’s address into Zillow to gather information about the property. It’s a three-bedroom, two-bath, 1,100-square-foot house on a secluded half-acre lot. The house has been up for sale for over three months. The last registered sale was in 2007, which gives me hope. Barbara Sullivan overheard Blake reciting the address on the phone three years ago. Since then, there hasn’t been a change in ownership. He should still be living there with his girlfriend, Jenna Davis.
I sweep through pictures of the property on Zillow. The rooms are done up in a Safari style décor of brown and moss-green color schemes. The curtains and upholstery parades in zebra and wildcat patterns. Each space is busy with useless collectible items and clutter. I zoom in on the pictures hanging on the wall, but they only contain manufactured shots of African mammals.
Slightly disappointed about not seeing a picture of Blake or members of his family in the photos, I switch off my cellphone and hit the road. I promised Anaya I wouldn’t make contact with Blake before she arrives with Brestler, but that doesn’t mean I can’t scout the place before they get there.
Fueled with nail-biting anticipation and emotional terror, I merge onto the freeway, navigating the ever-increasing traffic on Saturday night. Twenty minutes out from the house, a mass of cars is stopped dead in front of me on Highway 74. Cussing colorfully, I roll down the window and light a cigarette. I remember many summers ago scarcely any cars used these roads. Now it’s deadlock or near-deadlock traffic all day long.
Twenty minutes and three cigarettes later, I haven’t traveled more than a mile. There must be a bad accident up ahead. I turn on the radio to find a station with local traffic information. Spanish music. Commercial. Christian preaching. Commercial. Rap music. Classical radio. Religious doctrine. Spanish music. Commercial. Crap! Now I remember why I stopped listening to local radio stations.
I switch off the radio and search my phone for traffic updates. Google navigation shows gridlock from here to Lake Elsinore and beyond. What the hell is going on?
I read a few breaking news articles online about the area. According to Newsweeks.com and Patch.com, a lightning bolt struck the parched hillsides below the Ortega highway starting a small fire, and due to strong winds, the wildfire is rapidly spreading through the canyons and racing toward residential homes. An evacuation order is in effect for the area. I search the map. The fire is threatening the community where Blake’s house is located. I smash my fist onto the dashboard, scowling and muttering obscenities underneath my breath. Hell has fallen upon paradise, yet again, and an impenetrable sea of cars stands between my brother and me. I must be cursed.
32
The skies ahead of me are darkening with smoke, delicate pieces of ash are hovering in the air. I have my window rolled up, but the smell of smoke from the raging wildfire permeates within the car as helicopters carrying massive buckets of water circle overhead. I can’t stay here. I need to move.
Sirens and air horns blare in the distance before half a dozen red and yellow firetrucks caravan down the shoulder along the highway, passing traffic. I put my car in gear and take chase after the last fire engine to the next off-ramp.
I manage to reach the city line before a highway patrol officer stops me
. I show her my FBI badge and am granted passage past the police barricades ahead.
The city is under siege. Chaos reigns. People are desperately trying to get away from the inferno. Cops are attempting to manage traffic, but laws and regulations have little worth when people are running for their lives.
The opposite side is moving slowly, full of impatiently honking cars and people yelling. My lane is wide open as I head toward the fire, where fingers of red and orange flames are climbing up the mountain. The temperature is rising. The layer of ash descending on me is thickening. More firetrucks race up behind me. I pull over to let them pass.
I’m stopped by police again. It takes more convincing this time to be granted access to the fire and community ahead.
Forget Lake Elsinore. A colossal wildfire is consuming the city. I send a warning text to Anaya’s phone.
She immediately calls, but I don’t answer.
Two minutes away from Blake’s house, the blazing hillsides are vividly alive with fire. Like a giant red growing amoeba, the flames consume the parched vegetation, chasing wild animals from their homes. A raccoon with three babies is crossing the street in front of me. I stop, mesmerized by the destruction and suffering Mother Nature inflicts on herself and her children.
I see a team of brave firefighters, faces blackened with soot, making a stand against a wall of fire, as tongues of flames try to lap at the houses within reach. My respect for my sister and her job grows exponentially.
I stop the car and continue on foot as the road becomes too hazardous to drive any further. I pass families rushing to pack up their cars, not willing to let go of their memories and valued possessions. Parents are screaming at their kids to stop staring at the fire and get inside the car. Teenagers, standing like zombies, are recording the disaster on their smartphones. Two police officers are chasing a man running with a PlayStation pressed against his chest, which he ultimately discards in a ditch to run faster. The cops catch up to him, push him to the ground, and cuff his hands behind his back.
I have to show my ID to the people in charge of public safety three more times before I reach the house. It’s still intact, the wind blowing the fire in the opposite direction. A loud rumbling sound of an aircraft overhead draws my eyes to the sky as a low-flying airplane drops a line of orange fire-retardant along the edge of the residential community.
I don’t see a car parked by the house. Either nobody is home or the tenants have parked in the garage. If Blake lives here with Jenna, I assume they’ve already evacuated the area. I should leave too, but I feel an enormous gravitational pull toward the house. This is where my brother lives, or lived, at one point in his life. I want to touch the walls and feel his presence. People say twins have a special bond. I need to experience it.
I knock on the door.
No answer.
I jump the fence and try the back door.
It’s locked.
I peek through windows. I remove screens and pull at each lock until I find an open window. I climb inside and drop into a room that looks to be the guestroom.
I open the drawers. All empty.
I move into the bathroom. Cleaned out.
I walk to the kitchen. The dishwasher is empty, but the cabinets contain a few cups and plates.
The whole house looks to have been prepared for potential buyers’ visits.
The garage is the only place I find some personal items stored in bins. I pop a blue top open and delve into the contents. I see a 2003 Temescal Canyon High School yearbook. Blake isn’t in it.
I take out a stack of photos. There are mostly pictures of a pretty young girl with strawberry-blonde hair and a young Hispanic male, at least five years her senior. I flip a few photos over. No dates or names are written on the back.
Cheerleading outfits, a baseball glove, DVDs, CDs, shoes, and clothes.
Disappointed, I sit back on my heels, trying to make sense of what I’m seeing here. If this is the home of Jenna Davis, Blake’s pen pal from prison eight years ago, and possible girlfriend, then the guy in the photos must be the girl’s husband. But if the husband is still in the picture, why would Blake give this address to a handyman to fix the roof?
I go through a few more boxes. No recent photos. All of them are at least a decade old. None of this makes sense.
I keep searching, hoping to uncover an address to another one of Blake’s properties because it’s obvious he isn’t living here.
A police loudspeaker warns citizens to evacuate immediately. It’s scary sitting in this dark, dirty garage not knowing if the wind has changed direction or not. The fire could be blowing away from me or about to consume me. It’s silly to be risking my life going through this useless junk, but if I don’t find a clue, then I’ll have no way of finding my brother.
My phone buzzes in my back pocket. It must be a text from Anaya, probably complaining about me not answering her call earlier. I’m reluctant to click on the message. I know I’m probably in trouble—I don’t need her to tell me.
My throat is parched, and it’s getting increasingly difficult to breathe. I head to the kitchen to drink water from the tap.
I hear the garage door motor. Someone is here.
I freeze with panic. It could be the police responsible for the evacuation, or firefighters. Or Anaya for all I know. Either way, I don’t want to get caught for breaking and entering, or for conducting an illegal search without a warrant.
I step behind the refrigerator for cover and wait.
The motor whines again. The garage door is closing. I hear the door open from the garage, then footsteps. A face comes into view. My heart drops into my stomach.
“What the …! What are you doing here?” I call out to Ethan, my boyfriend’s business partner and lover.
His face goes pale with surprise as he jumps back, slamming his back against the doorframe.
“What the fuck!” he shouts at me. “How did you get here?”
My mouth opens to speak, but the sound doesn’t come out. I don’t understand what Ethan is doing here.
My phone vibrates again. The sound is loud in the dead silence. Ethan takes a hostile stance, staring at me with dark eyes.
I pull my phone out and read the message from Anaya.
Here’s a screenshot of the guy who spat on Meredith’s jacket.
I scroll down to the picture and the blood stops in my veins. I’m about to have a heart attack. I can’t breathe. It’s undoubtedly my close friend, Doug’s business partner and lover, who stands beside Meredith, wearing his stupid lumberjack beard and mustache and a furious expression on his face.
I slowly move my eyes to Ethan. I’m trained to mask my emotions, but I fail miserably. He knows that I know.
Ethan drops the bag in his hand to the floor and slowly grins. “Shit! You found out, didn’t you? I always knew you were a damn good detective.”
“Blake?” I breathe his name, a cold chill running down my spine.
He holds my gaze for a moment, then suddenly switches off the light. I find myself standing in darkness with only a slight red glow from the fire outside, in a strange house, trembling with uncertainty and fearing for my life.
33
I squat down and pull my Glock from its holster. I see a shadow move quickly across the room and disappear behind the breakfast nook. I don’t want to shoot my brother, but I may have no choice.
My breathing is raspy, fast, and loud, giving away my position. I feel like a rookie agent.
I squint, waiting for my eyes to adjust to the dimness.
“Blake, I only want to talk,” I plead desperately, my voice rising and falling with my rapid heartbeat.
“Don’t call me that! Blake died ten years ago.”
I aim my weapon in the direction of the angry voice, my hands shaking as I try to frantically focus on my training. I’ve never been in an officer-involved shooting. I’ve only pursued criminals online.
I duck-walk toward the door to look for a light switch. “
I know what happened to you, Blake. I’m here to help you. Please, I only want to help.”
“You don’t know shit about me! You women are all the same. You’re users. And when we’re no longer needed, you chew us up and spit us out. But when we need help? You disappear.” He is somewhere behind me. I spin around and nearly lose my balance. I scan the gloomy room for his silhouette. Nothing.
I reach back and flip on the light switch. It doesn’t work. Blake must have shut off the breakers to the house. My only hope of getting some light in here is through the blinds. As I inch toward the closest window in the living room, I hear a drawer open and utensils rattle.
My heart is in my throat. I can’t believe my twin brother would hurt me, but he’s damaged goods, a killer, likely a maniac serial killer who’s managed to elude justice for a decade.
I stumble over an ottoman but regain my footing before I fall to the ground. I lean against the wall and rip the blinds down. A faint reddish-orange glow floods the room.
“Why did you come here? Why did you have to ruin everything?”
I can hear him, but he knows where to hide. Panic overcomes me. I switch the aim of my Glock rapidly as the flickering light from the fire that casts images on the walls plays tricks with my mind.
“I came to help you. Please, let’s just talk.”
“How did you find me?”
The gun is heavy in my hands, and the muscles in my arms start twitching. I don’t know how much longer I can keep this up, but I do know that I don’t want to die here today. I don’t want to kill my brother either. But I must stop him, or at least, slow him down, so I desperately search for a target in the dim room. I fail. Blake’s voice seems to be coming from every direction. He’s toying with me.
“I retraced your past. I talked to your aunt and our biological father.”
“Don’t talk about those monsters to me!” he roars. I shudder.
“Okay. Okay. So, what do you want to talk about?”
“I’m not going back to prison.”